As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung The secret of the sounding wire, Enough! I will not play the Seer; The swift thought kindles as it flies, And burns to ashes in the skies. THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. I SAW, as in a dream sublime, The balance in the hand of Time. O'er East and West its beam impended; And day, with all its hours of light, Like the astrologers of eld, In that bright vision I beheld Greater and deeper mysteries. And through the dewy atmosphere, Where, chanting through his beard of snows, And down the sunless realms of space Reverberates the thunder of his bass. Beneath the sky's triumphal arch And with its chorus seemed to be Preluding some great tragedy. His sword hung gleaming by his side. And, on his arm, the lion's hide The golden radiance of its hair. The moon was pallid, but not faint; And beautiful as some fair saint, Serenely moving on her way In hours of trial and dismay. As if she heard the voice of God, Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars, That were to prove her strength, and try Thus moving on, with silent pace, Down fell the red skin of the lion Into the river at his feet. His mighty club no longer beat The forehead of the bull; but he Reeled as of yore beside the sea, He sought the blacksmith at his forge, Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. |