Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/279

Rh Grows dim beneath a chill and iron sky.

The trees of peace take the last gray of day—

Day that shone soft on olives, misty-green,

And aisles of wind-forbidding cypresses,

And long, white roads, whitely with plane-trees lined,

And farms content, and happy villages—

A land that lies close in the very heart

Of history, and brave, and free, and gay;

In all its song lingering one tone of pain.

But now the wintry twilight silent falls,

And ghosts of other days stalk the lone fields;

While through yon sunk and immemorial road,

Rock-furrowed, rough, and like a torrent's bed,

Far-stretching into night 'twixt twilight farms,

I see in dream the unhistoried armies pass,

With barbarous banners trailing 'gainst the gloom;

Then, in a thought's flash (centuries consumed),

In this deep path a fierce and refluent wave

Brims the confined and onward-pressing march

With standards slantwise borne; so, to the mind,

The all-conquering eagle northward takes its flight,

And one stern empire widens o'er the world.

There looms the arch of war where once, long gone,

In these still fields, against those thymy slopes,

An alien city reared imperial towers:

See sculptured conqueror, and slave in chains

Mournful a myriad years; and near the arch

The heaven-climbing, templed monument

Embossed with horse and furious warrior!

Millenniums have sped since those grim wars

Here grimly carved, the wonder of the churl,—

The very language dead those warriors cried.

Deepens the dusk, and on the neighboring hight

A rock-hewn palace cuts the edge of day