III
Now moonlight builds with swift and mystic art
And makes the ruin whole—and yet not whole;
But exquisite, tho' crusht and torn apart.
Back to the temple steals its living soul
In the star-silent night; it comes all pale—
A spirit breathing beauty and delight,
And yet how stricken! Hark! I hear it wail
Self-sorrowful, while every wound bleeds white.
IV
And tho' more sad than is the nightingale
That mourns in Lykabettos' fragrant pine,
That soul to mine brings solace; nor shall fail
To heal the heart of man while still doth shine
Yon planet, doubly bright in this deep blue;
Yon moon that brims with fire these violet hills:
For beauty is of God; and God is true,
And with His strength the soul of mortal fills.
THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE
Let fall the ruin propt by Europe's hands!
Its tottering walls are but a nest of crime;
Slayers and ravishers in licensed bands
Swarm darkly forth to shame the face of Time.
False, imbecile, and cruel; kept in place
Not by its natural force, but by the fears
Of foes, scared each of each; even by the grace
Of rivals—not blood-guiltless all these years!
Ay, let the ruin fall, and from its stones
Rebuild a civic temple pure and fair;
Where freedom is not alien; where the groans
Of dying and ravished burden not the air!
1896.
