Classic Poem

I stand alone; the votive crowd is gone
From the wide streets, the courts, the temple door;
And I pursue in thought with wonder flown
Through the closed fane, along the darkened floor,
The horror folded in
By those vast valves, the thing of sin,
The Pagod sitting dark within,
To whom the myriads bow; my demon foe;
To whom each man that might the passage win
Through those fell portals, dancing forth did show
To the wild crowd without, a face
Of leaden hue, a rapturous gaze
In his set eyeballs that did blaze.

And shrieked for fire, or thorny leaves did chew;
Or gnawed a writhing serpent by the tail;
Or upon pointed swords his body threw,
While his black limbs shone with impervious mail
Of rigid muscle; then the fit
Left him, and weak and wild of wit
The shaking creature there did sit.
So great the power that doth the demon arm;
And I in vain each day encounter it:
Each day I see again the myriad swarm
Of worshippers all passionate,
Blindly, marvellously elate,
Self-cruel, leaping to their fate.

From provinces and realms afar they come,
Not seeking life but death; ah, Thou didst stay
The crowds about thy Galilean home
With other comfort in thy holy day,
My Master, when thy hand
The sick man raised and bade him stand,
And demons fled at thy command.
They come, they flow unto this temple vast,
Led on by sorceries, a frantic band,
In brutal transformation, mad, aghast,
Through dust and heat and thirst they pant,
They jape, they dance, they shriek, they rant,
Each man a braying hierophant.

The wrinkled fane receives them with a grin
Of serpent cunning, so it seems to me;
One after one entranced they pass within
Its jaws enormous of dark sorcery:
And still it waits them, lurking still
In the deep caverns of the hill
In which 'tis hewn by demon skill;
Like countless lizard feet its pillars small
Seem almost creeping with an evil will,
Each of them is a mountain's pedestal;
For it has made the mount its lair,
And through the living rock doth wear
Its path malign by vault and stair.

And all the fissured faces of the rocks
Are rough with sculptures wildly intricate
Of hideous gods, wherein are lodged the flocks
Of sacred birds and apes; and round the gate
Burn the cane cressets, hang the swings,
The flesh-hooks and the bloody strings
In which the tortured body swings,
What time the fury reacheth to its height,
And the low throbbing drum incessant sings,
And madding dins the maniac throng excite
To awful rites of blood and lust,
Till in the heat the very dust
Is laid with murderous holocaust.

Ah, how shall it be ended? Wonder grows
To mark the working of the demon's might:
But greater wonder at the sign which shows
This darkness to be swallowed up of light
Master, I comprehend
Through the deep comfort thou dost send,
The great beginnings of the end:
For this am I thy feeble instrument;
What boots it now to reason? Thou dost rend
The heavens in working out thine own intent:
Thy beams shall quench the savage flame,
Thy love the savage might shall tame,
This people shall confess thy name.

Yea, I who doubted once may doubt no more,
Albeit I stand alone believing Thee
Of all the millions of this mighty shore;
What I have heard and seen sufficeth me.
I saw thy sacred head among
The swaying waves of Salem's throng,
When Thou didst pass to death along
The steep ascending street: alone wast Thou;
Alone am I; yet 'tis my joyful song
That thou, oh Lord, art with thy servant now:
I cast my life in jeopardy,
I welcome death as victory,
I shall declare thy truth and die.