For strife with heresy and schism, And Turretin with lordly nod Gave system to the dogmatism That analyzed the thought of God As light is painted by a prism. Great Luther, with his great disputes, And Calvin, with his finished scheme, And Charnock, with his "Attributes," And Taylor with his poet's dream Of theologic flowers and flutes, And Thomas Fuller, old and quaint, And Cudworth, dry with dust of gold, And South, the sharp and witty saint, With Howe and Owen--broad and bold-- And Leighton still without the taint Of earth upon his robe of white, Stood side by side with Hobbes and Locke, And, braced by many an acolyte, With Edwards standing on his rock, And all New England's men of might, Whose gifts and offices divine Had crowned her with a kingly crown, And solemn doctors from the Rhine, With Fichte, Kant, and Hegel, down Through all the long and stately line! As Mildred saw the awful host, She felt within no motive stir To realize her girlish boast, And knew they held no more for her Than if each volume were a ghost. XXI. She sat in Philip's vacant chair, And pondered long her doubtful way; And, in her impotent despair, Lifted her longing eyes to pray, When on a shelf, far up, and bare, She saw an ancient volume lie; And straight her rising thought was checked. What were its dubious treasures? Why Had it been banished from respect, And from its owner's hand and eye? The more she gazed, the stronger grew The wish to hold it in her hand. Strange fancies round the volume flew, And changed the dust their pinions fanned To atmospheres of red and blue, That blent in purple aureole,-- As if a lymph of sweetest life Stood warm within a golden bowl, Crowned with its odor-cloud, and rife With strength and solace for her soul! And there it lay beyond her arm, And wrought its fine and wondrous spell, With all its hoard of good or harm, Till curious Mildred, struggling well, Surrendered to the mighty charm. The steps were scaled for boon or bale, The book was lifted from its place, And, bowing to the fragrant grail, She drank with pleased and eager face This draught from off an Eastern tale: Selim, the haughty Jehangir, the Conqueror of the Earth, With royal pomps and pageantries and rites of festal mirth Was set to celebrate the day--the white day--of his birth. His red pavilions, stretching wide, crowned all with globes of gold, And tipped with pinnacles of fire and streamers manifold, Flamed with such splendor that the sun at noon looked pale and cold! And right and left, along, the plain, far as the eye could gaze, His nobles and retainers who were tented in the blaze, Kept revel high in honor of that day of all the days.