“And when the damp and dreary mould Full soon my little limbs shall hold, Let Leonardo’s finger write Upon my grave, in letters bold: ‘_His life was as a splash of gold Against the plumage of the night._’” Thus spake the lad; and onward rolled The world’s great pageant fierce and bright. THE MAGIC CITY Who knows where Babylon’s forgotten kings Now keep their state? Laid to their rest ’neath purple coverings, They meet the common fate. No traces that abide Of all the Christs who bled upon the Cross Ere Jesus died, And by the Ganges sought the gain of loss: Behold their priestly mantle’s dye Has faded, and their day gone by. The witching girls with eyes so crystal-clear And honeyed tresses bright, Full many a fool’s delight And his heart’s all: These with the snows of yester-year Not Villon’s cry shall wake to light-- Asleep beyond recall. The tables of the law are broken; The flocks are feeding on the grass that grows About each sculptured token Of ancient empire, and the wild wind blows Yet, though the spell of death and ruin lord The earth, above all mortal woes Deathless triumphant sounds the poet’s word, Clothed with thought’s flame, and through the storm-fraught night, Blazes like a mighty sword Leaping to the fight. Through the clang of battle, and the crash Of worlds that to destruction fall, Song rings out like silver trumpets’ call, Or, heard through all, Harmonious still, great chords consenting clash. Never is melody silent on earth; Faint, far-away, but forever rings the sound of its mirth, Not even the sun is eternal, but immortal, O Homer, thy birth! And still the listening years Repeat her lyric name, Who wove song’s deathless garland from her tears And from her shame. And raised by music’s might --High walls in battlemented line-- A magic city dawns before my sight: Golden temples rear their haughty heads on high. Domes like new suns blazing seem to span the sky. I enter in, and straying stand at length Amazed before a vast cathedral’s door. Immense it rises there, in conscious strength That many a tempest bore. On the threshold swift I pause: Sound of ghostly footsteps awes My eager feet that would an entrance win, Bids me kneel and murmur low Prayers of reverence, as I know What holy thoughts, what wisdom dwell therein.