Here you will find the Poem To the Old Gods of poet Muriel Stuart
O YE, who rode the gales of Sicily, Sandalled with flame, Spread on the pirate winds; o ye who broke No wind-flower as ye came-- Though Pelion shivered when the thunder spoke The gods' decree!-- Into the twilight of the ancient days Have not ye flown!-- Ye, whom the happy Greeks inspired hand Struck from the frenzied stone: That, ye withdrawn, your images should stand To take their praise. Smeared into clay, and frozen into stone! Ye, that do now Face eyes unworshipful in plunder's halls, Mutilate, with marred brow: Broken and maimed: couched along alien walls In lands unknown. O gracious ones! No more, no more, shall ye Spread wing above Perilous Ossa! No more wring delight From pool and golden grove: No more beneath your fire-shod feet in flight Shall hiss the sea. The thuunder shall not groan between your breasts, Nor lightning writhe Barbed in your clutch; no worshippers shall trace Your steps in grove and hithe. No more 'thwart skies your golden stallions race On mighty quests. And yet what fane, what column, rises now To save or shine: What temple travails at such quickening feet, What wing-tip seeds a shrine: What god hath bid us build in wold or street, Such breast and brow? What have our wisdom and our worship done To raise such gods? To quench the ruined eyes of Parthenon What newer beauty nods, And shames the wreckless brow that stares upon The amazèd sun? Held up in arms of columns white as flowers, You faced the sea, With your great breasts for glory passioning,-- For mortal's victory; Not 'neath occaisonal thin spires that spring From streets of ours, Hooding the dying god, whom men revile,-- Who bears their sin. No great winds thunder over sun-splashed thrones, Our dusty shrines within, Where troubled feet make groan the weary stones, In hollow isle. I, only I, kneel at forsaken shrine: The lamp I bring Scarce throws a shade beneath your eyelids there: Forlorn the song I sing To ears august, and these wrung berries bear A bitter wine. Yet still I kneel, poor praise to offer up To each great name! And I shall feel upon my brow descend A sudden edge of flame. Your wings shall smear these words, even as ye bend To this poor cup.