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To Beauty.
By W. M. MacKeracher
Beauty, beloved of all gentle hearts
And pure, and cherished of the gifted tribe
Whose skill to canvas and even stone imparts
Such things as words are powerless to describe.
And bards, who woo thee in the silent shade
And dote upon thee under moonlit skies,
And lovers, who behold thee new-array'd,
As our first parents did in Paradise!
These all have been thy priests. In times remote,
In Athens and the cool Thessalian dells,
They sung thy liturgy with dulcet note,
And quaff'd thy chalice from the sacred wells
Of leafy Helicon. Beneath the brows
Of fam'd Olympus and among the isles
Of the Aegean sea they paid their vows,
And read thy lore in Nature's frowns and smiles.
Nor strange to Zion's sanctuaried hill
Wast thou, embalmer of the holy page;
Ambrosial odors from thy garments fill
The garden where the amorous royal sage
Walk'd and discours'd with his beloved; there
Alluring in thy soft and sumptuous dress:
And to his kinglier sire supremely fair,
Companion sweet of meek-ey'd Holiness.
Thou hast no local temple, no set shrine;
Thou art diffus'd o'er earth and sky and sea;
In every land a thousand haunts are thine,
Spirits of every race respond to thee.
Here thy Olympus and thy Zion hill,
Thy silvery Aegean, I survey;
Thy majesty and loveliness at will
I view, and own thy tranquilizing sway.
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