August Moon
Look! the round-cheeked moon floats high, In the glowing August sky, Quenching all her neighbor stars, Save the steady flame of Mars. White as silver shines the sea, Far-off sails like phantoms be, Gliding o'er that lake of light, Vanishing in nether night. Heavy hangs the tasseled corn, Sighing for the cordial morn; But the marshy-meadows bare, Love this spectral-lighted air, Drink the dews and lift their song, Chirp of crickets all night long; Earth and sea enchanted lie 'Neath that moon-usurped sky. To the faces of our friends Unfamiliar traits she lends— Quaint, white witch, who looketh down With a glamour all her own. Hushed are laughter, jest, and speech, Mute and heedless each of each, In the glory wan we sit, Visions vague before us flit; Side by side, yet worlds apart, Heart becometh strange to heart. Slowly in a moved voice, then, Ralph, the artist spake again— "Does not that weird orb unroll Scenes phantasmal to your soul? As I gaze thereon, I swear, Peopled grows the vacant air, Fables, myths alone are real, White-clad sylph-like figures steal 'Twixt the bushes, o'er the lawn, Goddess, nymph, undine, and faun. Yonder, see the Willis dance, Faces pale with stony glance; They are maids who died unwed, And they quit their gloomy bed, Hungry still for human pleasure, Here to trip a moonlit measure. Near the shore the mermaids play, Floating on the cool, white spray, Leaping from the glittering surf To the dark and fragrant turf, Where the frolic trolls, and elves Daintily disport themselves. All the shapes by poet's brain, Fashioned, live for me again, In this spiritual light, Less than day, yet more than night. What a world! a waking dream, All things other than they seem, Borrowing a finer grace, From yon golden globe in space; Touched with wild, romantic glory, Foliage fresh and billows hoary, Hollows bathed in yellow haze, Hills distinct and fields of maize, Ancient legends come to mind. Who would marvel should he find, In the copse or nigh the spring, Summer fairies gamboling Where the honey-bees do suck, Mab and Ariel and Puck? Ah! no modern mortal sees Creatures delicate as these. All the simple faith has gone Which their world was builded on. Now the moonbeams coldly glance On no gardens of romance; To prosaic senses dull, Baldur's dead, the Beautiful, Hark, the cry rings overhead, 'Universal Pan is dead!'" "Requiescant!" Claude's grave tone Thrilled us strangely. "I am one Who would not restore that Past, Beauty will immortal last, Though the beautiful must die— This the ages verify. And had Pan deserved the name Which his votaries misclaim, He were living with us yet. I behold, without regret, Beauty in new forms recast, Truth emerging from the vast, Bright and orbed, like yonder sphere, Making the obscure air clear. He shall be of bards the king, Who, in worthy verse, shall sing All the conquests of the hour, Stealing no fictitious power From the classic types outworn, But his rhythmic line adorn With the marvels of the real. He the baseless feud shall heal That estrangeth wide apart Science from her sister Art. Hold! look through this glass for me? Artist, tell me what you see?" "I!" cried Ralph. "I see in place Of Astarte's silver face, Or veiled Isis' radiant robe, Nothing but a rugged globe Seamed with awful rents and scars. And below no longer Mars, Fierce, flame-crested god of war, But a lurid, flickering star, Fashioned like our mother earth, Vexed, belike, with death and birth." Rapt in dreamy thought the while, With a sphinx-like shadowy smile, Poet Florio sat, but now Spake in deep-voiced accents slow, More as one who probes his mind, Than for us—"Who seeks, shall find— Widening knowledge surely brings Vaster themes to him who sings. Was veiled Isis more sublime Than yon frozen fruit of Time, Hanging in the naked sky? Death's domain—for worlds too die. Lo! the heavens like a scroll Stand revealed before my soul; And the hieroglyphs are suns— Changeless change the law that runs Through the flame-inscribed page, World on world and age on age, Balls of ice and orbs of fire, What abides when these expire? Through slow cycles they revolve, Yet at last like clouds dissolve. Jove, Osiris, Brahma pass, Races wither like the grass. Must not mortals be as gods To embrace such periods? Yet at Nature's heart remains One who waxes not nor wanes. And our crowning glory still Is to have conceived his will."
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