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Show Thoehtis Apollo, By Guy Wetmore Carryl. Hear us, Phoebus Apollo, who are shorn of contempt con-tempt and prider f Humbled and crushed Jn a" worldigono wroaq since the smoke on thine altars 'died! Hear us, Lord of the Sunrise, and come, W of old you came; i Dawn on the doubts and darkness born of our later shame! There are strange gods come among us, of pas- slon and scorn, and greed: They are throned in our stately cities, our sons at their altars bleed. t The smoke of their thousand battles hath blinded blind-ed thy children's eyes, And our hearts are sick for a ruler that answers s us not with lies, ! Sick for thy light untarnished, Fruit of Latona's pain: : Hear us, Phoebus Apollo, and come to thine own again! Our eyes, of earth grown weary, through the backward ages peer Till, wooed of our eager craving, the scene of thy birth grows clear, ; And across the calm Aegean, gray-green in the j early morn, ', Wo hear the cry of the circling swans that salute the god new-born; The challenge of mighty Python, the song of ; the shafts that go '' Straight to the heart of the monster, sped from thy slender bow. 5r Again through the vale of Tempe a magical music m rings, B The songs of the marching Muses, the ripple of K fingered strings; But this is our dreaming only: we "wait for5- stronger strain: Hear us, Phoebus Apollo, and come to thine own ' again! There are some among us, Diviner, who know i not thy way and will, Some of thy rebel children who bow to the strange gods still, Some that dream of oppression, and many that dream of gold, Whose ears are deaf to the music that gladden ' the world of old; But we, the few of the faithful, we are wearjrrof' wars unjust. ' ', There is left no god of our thousands gods that we love, believe, or trust; In our courts is justice scoffed at, in our senates gold has sway, And the deeds of our priests and preachers make mock of the words they say. Cardinals, kings, and captains, there is left none ' fit to reign; Hear us, Phoebus Apollo, and come to thine own again! We have hearkened to creeds unnumbered, we have given them trial and test, And the creed of thy Delphic temple of them all is still the best! The clean-limbed, blithe disciples, slender, and strong, and young, The swing of their long processions, the lilt of the songs they sung, Thine" own majestic presence pursuing the nymph of dawn In thy chariot eastward blazing, by thy stately griffons drawn. The spell of thy liquid music, heard once in the speeding year: -These are t the 'things, Great Archer, rtht rW H long to see and hear! 1 For beside thy creed unblemished all others are P stale and vain: BH Hear us, Phoebus Apollo, and come to thine own HH Monarch of light and laughter, honor and trust, H and truth, IH God Of all inspiration, King of eternal youth, H Whose words are fitted to music as jewels are H in gold, H There is need of thy splendid worship in a world H grown grim and old! jH We have drunk the wine of the ages, we are come to the dregs and lees. H And the shrines are all unworthy where we bend HH reluctant knees: H The brand of the beast is on us, we grovel and grope and err. Wake, Great God of the morning! The moment has come to stir! The stars of our night of evil on a wan horizon H Hear us, Phoebus Apollo, and come to thine own again! H From. Scribner's Magazine. H |
