300
A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG
Was his soul's best blossoming,
Knew the thought he could not hold
Shrined his spirit's purest gold.
Look!"
Where rose the city's gate
In majestic, sculptured state,
From a far-off battle-plain,
Through the javelins' silver rain
Bearing buckler, lance, and shield,
And their standard's glittering field,
Eager, yet with shout nor din,
Came a great host trooping in.
Burned their eyes with martial fire,
And the glow of proud desire,
Such as gods and hero's filled
When their mighty souls were thrilled
By old Homer's golden lyre!
Knew the thought he could not hold
Shrined his spirit's purest gold.
Look!"
Where rose the city's gate
In majestic, sculptured state,
From a far-off battle-plain,
Through the javelins' silver rain
Bearing buckler, lance, and shield,
And their standard's glittering field,
Eager, yet with shout nor din,
Came a great host trooping in.
Burned their eyes with martial fire,
And the glow of proud desire,
Such as gods and hero's filled
When their mighty souls were thrilled
By old Homer's golden lyre!
Under dim cathedral arches
Pacing sad, pacing slow,
As to beat of funeral marches
Or to music's rhythmic flow—
With their solemn brows uplifted,
And their hands upon their breasts,
Where the deepest shadows drifted,
One by one pale phantoms pressed.
Lost in dreams of heights supernal,
Mystic dreams of Paradise,
Or of woful depths infernal,
Slow they passed before mine eyes.
Oh, the vision's pallid splendor!
Oh, the grandeur of their mien—
Kin, by birthright proud and tender,
To the matchless Florentine!
Pacing sad, pacing slow,
As to beat of funeral marches
Or to music's rhythmic flow—
With their solemn brows uplifted,
And their hands upon their breasts,
Where the deepest shadows drifted,
One by one pale phantoms pressed.
Lost in dreams of heights supernal,
Mystic dreams of Paradise,
Or of woful depths infernal,
Slow they passed before mine eyes.
Oh, the vision's pallid splendor!
Oh, the grandeur of their mien—
Kin, by birthright proud and tender,
To the matchless Florentine!
