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Hymn to Horus

Hail, God revived in glory!
The night is over and done;
Far mountains wrinkled and hoary,
Fair cities great in story,
Flash in the rising sun.

Behold the Dawn uncloses
The shutters of the night;
The Waste and her oases
Blossoms a rose of roses
Beneath thy rose-red light.

Hail, golden House of Horus,
Lap of heaven's holiest God!
From lotos-banks before us
Birds in ecstatic chorus
Fly, singing, from the sod.

Up, up, into the shining,
Translucent morning sky,
No longer dull and pining,
With drooping plumes declining,
The storks and eagles fly.

The Nile amid his rushes
Reflects thy risen disk;
A light of gladness gushes
Through kindling halls, and flushes
Each flaming Obelisk.

Vast Temples catch thy splendour;
Vistas of columns shine
Celestial, with a tender
Rose-bloom on every slender
Papyrus-pillared shrine.

In manifold disguises,
And under many names,
Thrice-holy son of Isis,
We worship him who rises
A child-god fledged in flames.

Hail, sacred Hawk, who, winging,
Crossest the heavenly sea!
With harp-playing, with singing,
With linen robes, white clinging,
We come, fair God, to thee.

Thou whom our soul espouses,
When weary of the way,
Enter our golden houses,
And, with thy mystic spouses,
Rest from the long, long way.

poem by Mathilde Blind
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The Wedding of the Rose and the Lotos

The wide Pacific waters
And the Atlantic meet.
With cries of joy they mingle,
In tides of love they greet.
Above the drowned ages
A wind of wooing blows: —
The red rose woos the lotos,
The lotos woos the rose . . .

The lotos conquered Egypt.
The rose was loved in Rome.
Great India crowned the lotos:
(Britain the rose's home).
Old China crowned the lotos,
They crowned it in Japan.
But Christendom adored the rose
Ere Christendom began . . .

The lotos speaks of slumber:
The rose is as a dart.
The lotos is Nirvana:
The rose is Mary's heart.
The rose is deathless, restless,
The splendor of our pain:
The flush and fire of labor
That builds, not all in vain. . . .

The genius of the lotos
Shall heal earth's too-much fret.
The rose, in blinding glory,
Shall waken Asia yet.
Hail to their loves, ye peoples!
Behold, a world-wind blows,
That aids the ivory lotos
To wed the red red rose!

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Bridal Eve

GOOD-NIGHT, my Heart, my Heart, good-night--
Oh, good and dear and fair,
With lips of life and eyes of light
And roses in your hair.

To-morrow brings the other crown,
The orange blossoms, Sweet,
And then the rose will be cast down
With lilies at your feet.

But in your soul a garden stands
Where fair the white rose blows--
God, teach my foolish clumsy hands
The way to tend my rose.

That in the white-rose garden still
The lily may bloom fair
God help my heart and soul and will
To keep the lily there.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Moon of Ramadân

The sunset melts upon the Nile,
The stony desert glows,
Beneath heaven's universal smile,
One burning damask rose;
And like a Peri's pearly boat,
No longer than a span,
Look, faint on fiery sky afloat,
The Moon of Ramadân.

Our boat drifts idly with the Stream,
Our boatmen ship the oar;
Vistas of endless temples gleam
On either topaz shore;
And swimming over groves of Palm,
A crescent weak and wan,
There steals into the perfect calm
The Moon of Ramadân.

All nature seems to bask in peace
And hush her lowest sigh;
Above the river's golden fleece
The happy Halcyons fly.
And lost in some old lotos dream,
The pensive Pelican
Sees mirrored in the mazy stream
The Moon of Ramadân.

Black outlined on the golden air
A turbaned Silhouette,
The Mueddin invites to prayer
From many a Minaret.
Our dusky boatmen hear the call,
And prostrate, man on man,
They bow, adoring, one and all,
The Moon of Ramadân.

Where Luxor's rose-flushed columns shine
Above the river's brim,
The priests with incense once, and wine,
Made sacrifice to Him,
The highest god of Thebes, and head
Of all the heavenly clan;
But now the Moslem hails instead
The Moon of Ramadân.

The gods have come, the gods have gone,
Yet wedded to their walls,
Winged with the serpent of the Sun
In mute processionals,
They stride from door to massy door,
Bound nations in their van,
Though Amon's Sun has waned before
The Moon of Ramadân.

Yea, even proud Egypt's proudest king,
Who chastised rebel lands,
And brought his gods for offering
Mountains of severed hands;
Who singly, like a god of War,
Smote hosts that swerved and ran,
Lies low 'neath Allah's scimetar--
The Moon of Ramadân.

And Isis, Queen, whose sacred disk's
Horned splendour crowned her brow,
While fires of flashing Obelisks
Flamed in the Afterglow;
And white-robed priests who served her shrine
Have turned Mahommedan,
And worship Him who wears for sign
The Moon of Ramadân.

The rosy lotos, flower and leaf,
Which wreathed each sacred lake,
With Nature's loveliest bas-relief,
Has followed in their wake;
Yea, with the last true Pharaoh's death,
The lotos leaves, grown wan,
Have changed to lily white beneath
The Moon of Ramadân.

The gods may come, the gods may go,
And royal realms change hands;
But the most ancient Nile will flow,
And flood the desert sands;
And nightly will he glass the stars'
Unearthly caravan,
Nor care if it be Rome's red Mars
Or Moon of Ramadân.

The sunset fades upon the Nile;
The desert's stony gloom,
Receding blankly mile on mile,
Grows silent as a tomb.
All weary wanderers, man and beast,
Hie, fasting, to the Khan,
While shines above their nightly feast
The Moon of Ramadân.

poem by Mathilde Blind
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The Flower of Liberty

WHAT flower is this that greets the morn,
Its hues from Heaven so freshly born?
With burning star and flaming band
It kindles all the sunset land:
Oh tell us what its name may be,--
Is this the Flower of Liberty?

It is the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

In savage Nature's far abode
Its tender seed our fathers sowed;
The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud,
Its opening leaves were streaked with blood,
Till lo! earth's tyrants shook to see
The full-blown Flower of Liberty!

Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

Behold its streaming rays unite,
One mingling flood of braided light,--
The red that fires the Southern rose,
With spotless white from Northern snows,
And, spangled o'er its azure, see
The sister Stars of Liberty!

Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

The blades of heroes fence it round,
Where'er it springs is holy ground;
From tower and dome its glories spread;
It waves where lonely sentries tread;
It makes the land as ocean free,
And plants an empire on the sea!

Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower,
Shall ever float on dome and tower,
To all their heavenly colors true,
In blackening frost or crimson dew,--
And God love us as we love thee,
Thrice holy Flower of Liberty!

Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry FLOWER OF LIBERTY!

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Preparatory Meditations - Second Series: 143

(Canticles 6:10. Who is She that Looks Forth as the Morning,
Fair as the Moon, Clear as the Sun, Terrible as an Army with Banners)

Wonders amazed! Am I espoused to Thee?
My glorious Lord? What! Shall my bit of clay
Be made more bright than brightest angels be,
Look forth like as the morning every way?
And shall my lump of dirts wear such attire?
Rise up in heavenly ornaments thus, higher?

But still the wonders stand, shall I look like
The glorious morning that doth gild the sky
With golden beams that make all day grow light,
And view the world o'er with its golden eye?
And shall I rise like fair as the fair moon,
And bright as in the sun, that lights each room?

When we behold a piece of China clay
Formed up into a China dish complete,
All spiced o'er with gold sparks display
Their beauty all under a glass robe neat,
We gaze thereat, and wonder rise up will,
Wond'ring to see the Chinese art and skill.

How then should we and angels but admire
Thy skill and vessel Thou hast made bright thus
Out for to look like to the morning tire
That shineth out in all bright heavenly plush?
Whose golden beams all varnish o'er the skies
And gild our canopy in golden wise?

Wonders are nonplussed to behold Thy spouse
Look forth like to the morning whose sweet rays
Gild o'er our skies as with transparent boughs
Like orient gold of a celestial blaze.
Fair as the moon, bright as the sun, most clear,
Gilding with spiritual gold grace's bright sphere.

O blessed! Virgin spouse, shall thy sharp looks
Gild o'er the objects of thy shining eyes
Like fairest moon and brightest sun do th' fruits
Even as that make the morning shining rise?
The fairest moon in 'ts socket's candle-light
Unto the night and th' sun's day's candle bright.

Thy spouse's robes all made of spiritual silk
Of th' web wove in the heaven's bright loom indeed,
By the Holy Spirit's hand more white than milk
And fitted to attire thy soul that needs.
As th' morning bright's made of the sun's bright rays,
So th' Spirit's web thy soul's rich loom o'erlays.

Oh! Spouse adorned like the morning clear,
Chasing the night out from its hemisphere.
And like the fair face of the moon, whose cheer
Is very brave and like the bright sun 'pear,
Thus gloriously fitted in brightest story
Of grace espoused to be the king of glory.

And thus decked up methinks my ear attends
Kings', queens' and ladies' query, 'Who is this?
Enravished at her sight, how she out sends
Her looks like to the morning filled with bliss,
Fair as the moon, clear as the sun in 'ts costs
And terrible as is a bannered host?'

And all in grace's colors thus bedight,
That do transcend with glory's shine the sun
And moon for fairness and for glorious light,
As doth the sun a glowworm's shine outrun.
No wonder then and if the Bridesgroom say,
'Thou art all fair, my Love, Yea, everyway.'

May I a member be, my Lord, once made
Here of Thy spouse in truest sense, though it be
The meanest of all, a toe, or finger 'rayd,
I'st have enough bliss, espoused to Thee.
Then I in brightest glory ere 't be long
Will honor Thee singing that wedden song.

poem by Edward Taylor
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The Land Of Love

Hail! voyagers, hail!
Whence e'er ye come, where'er ye rove,
No calmer strand,
No sweeter land,
Will e'er ye view, than the Land of Love!

Hail! voyagers, hail!
To these, our shores, soft gales invite:
The palm plumes wave,
The billows lave,
And hither point fix'd stars of light!

Hail! voyagers, hail!
Think not our groves wide brood with gloom;
In this, our isle,
Bright flowers smile:
Full urns, rose-heaped, these valleys bloom.

Hail! voyagers, hail!
Be not deceived; renounce vain things;
Ye may not find
A tranquil mind,
Though hence ye sail with swiftest wings.

Hail! voyagers, hail!
Time flies full fast; life soon is o'er;
And ye may mourn,
That hither borne,
Ye left behind our pleasant shore.

poem by Herman Melville
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A Night In June

Lady! in this night of June
Fair like thee and holy,
Art thou gazing at the moon
That is rising slowly?
I am gazing on her now:
Something tells me, so art thou.

Night hath been when thou and I
Side by side were sitting,
Watching o'er the moonlit sky
Fleecy cloudlets flitting.
Close our hands were linkèd then;
When will they be linked again?

What to me the starlight still,
Or the moonbeams' splendour,
If I do not feel the thrill
Of thy fingers slender?
Summer nights in vain are clear,
If thy footstep be not near.

Roses slumbering in their sheaths
O'er my threshold clamber,
And the honeysuckle wreathes
Its translucent amber
Round the gables of my home:
How is it thou dost not come?

If thou camest, rose on rose
From its sleep would waken;
From each flower and leaf that blows
Spices would be shaken;
Floating down from star and tree,
Dreamy perfumes welcome thee.

I would lead thee where the leaves
In the moon-rays glisten;
And, where shadows fall in sheaves,
We would lean and listen
For the song of that sweet bird
That in April nights is heard.

And when weary lids would close,
And thy head was drooping,
Then, like dew that steeps the rose,
O'er thy languor stooping,
I would, till I woke a sigh,
Kiss thy sweet lips silently.

I would give thee all I own,
All thou hast would borrow;
I from thee would keep alone
Fear and doubt and sorrow.
All of tender that is mine,
Should most tenderly be thine.

Moonlight! into other skies,
I beseech thee wander.
Cruel, thus to mock mine eyes,
Idle, thus to squander
Love's own light on this dark spot;-
For my lady cometh not!

poem by Alfred Austin
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Day

Day! I lament that none can hymn thy praise
In fitting strains, of all thy riches bless;
Though thousands sport them in thy golden rays,
Yet none like thee their Maker's name confess.
Great fellow of my being! woke with me
Thou dost put on thy dazzling robes of light,
And onward from the east go forth to free
Thy children from the bondage of the night;
I hail thee, pilgrim! on thy lonely way,
Whose looks on all alike benignant shine;
A child of light, like thee, I cannot stay,
But on the world I bless must soon decline,
New rising still, though setting to mankind,
And ever in the eternal West my dayspring find.

poem by Jones Very
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Past Tense

long, long time ago
in the past tense of my life
there was once a rosey rose
with a beauty sharper than a knife
spoiled by every dropp of rain
on her petals so reddish as blood
playful in such childish vain
though never she had to leave her bud