Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/96

82 Unmindful of the sacred hour announced, Disdainful or unconscious, held his course. &quot;Would that I also, like yon stupid wight, Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe ! &quot; He murmured bitterly beneath his breath. &quot; Were I a pagan, riding to contend For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal, What fire of inspiration, would I sing The praises of the gods! How may my lyre Glorify these whose very life I doubt? The world is governed by one cruel God, Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ, Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold, They give us for a heaven of living gods, Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song; A creed of suffering and despair, walled in On every side by brazen boundaries, That limit the soul s vision and her hope To a red hell or an unpeopled heaven. Yea, I am lost already,—even now Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts. O gods ! gods ! where shall my soul find peace?" He raised his wan face to the faded skies, Now shadowing into twilight; no response Came from their sunless heights; no miracle, As in the ancient days of answering gods. With a long, shuddering sigh he glanced to earth, Finding himself among the Horsel cliffs.