At The Grave Of Serra

’Tis midnight, and the Eagle seeks the sea, Which, near at hand, eternally intones Its woe immeasurable. Thro the pane Of yonder casement giving on the south, The moonlight holds a chill and gleaming shaft Above the grave where Serra sleeps. O heart! Flaming, audacious heart, so long in dust! ’Twas thy reward to die ere died thy works, To perish, ere the Vision too was fled. The vineyard and the orchard and the fold Have passed, and passed as well that other Flock Thy tenderest concern, O spirit pure! Who, in an age of infamy and gold Saw souls alone. The timbers of thy fane Have men at last renewed; but where are they, The humble, dusky thousands of thy care? One mould with thee! About thy place of sleep The futile, peering pleasure-seekers come, Glance, and forget. Thy kin in Christ draw near, Little in numbers now, and less in faith; For where the faith that grasped thee like a hand And led thee on to peril and to pain? The lamp burns low. They ask for them a sign.

Thou Power unseen whose hands implacable Close in despair what man begins in hope,-- Unto what end, O Fate! unto what end Dost thou hale forth on quests irradiant Thy nobler sons? Is duty but a jest, Seeing its guerdon given? In thy sight Is Goodness even as Evil? Shall she find Her wages also death? Wilt thou deride Our ancient search for justice in thy ways?

With bitter viands evermore appease Our hunger and our thirst for righteousness? Dost fashion beauty for a moth’s desire, And sow thee life to garner thee but dust?

The soundless grave is not more still than Thou, The moon less husht in heaven ... About my feet The shadows change ... I hear the unchanging sea.