Dedication

Mother thrice reverend, O widowed saint, Upon thy shattered throne I come to place The crowns of Art, dream-made and dream-engraved. With war storms desolate, my native land, Trod by the Turk and by strangers scorned thou wert; Even thy child beholding thee in ruins, As if the waters of Oblivion In dark Oblivion's Dale had touched his lips, Left thee; and thou didst writhe like a whole world Engulfed in sounds of woe: Hair-tearings and Breast-beatings, groans of sad despair, night-bats Wandering restlessly, unheeded prayers Of souls condemned, loud thunder peals, fierce glares Of lightnings, and the laughter of the fiends!

But lo, unknown and humble I, with calm Upon my countenance and storm in mind, Far from the panic-stricken market place, Beneath the plane trees' shade, and far away By the blood-tinctured settings of the suns, Unruffled, in another land I travelled, And deep I dug in distant treasure mines. And with my hand, that knows no rifle's touch, Slowly I hammered on the crowns of art; And if thou findest nowhere on their gleam Thine image painted, or thy blessed name Written, thou knowest still, O motherland, Though in thy woe's abyss they seem unlike, And though a strange and careless glimmer shines On them, they were created out of thee; For thee I made them; and for thee I raised them.

Perhaps, when in the midst of wilderness And ruins thou first openest thine eyes, O hapless One, my humble offerings Will not appear like thy wrath's threats, nor like The joyful trumpetings of thy reveille, Nor like an image of thy passion's cross, Nor like thy sorrow's dirge, nor like glad hymns; But like soft songs and trembling lights and fondlings Of lily hands, black birds, and stars unknown.

Thus when, smitten with Charon's knife and sunk In death's dark swoon, a hapless mother feels Life's tide return, she hears again, like first Life-summons, the anxious voice of her fond child, A voice that comforts her and tenderly Tells of a thousand tales of love his fancy Weaves or his memory recalls, and drowns His faintest sigh not to remind his mother Of the unerring blow of Charon's knife.

Mother thrice-reverend, O widowed saint, Upon thy shattered throne I come to place The crowns of Art dream-made and dream-engraved. Though they will echo not thy sorrow's groans, A child of thine has bound them on thine earth With gold; upon their circles thine own speech Is shown with master tongue; their light is drawn From thy sun's gleaming fountain; seek no more!

Only with harmony sublime and pure, Which, though it rises over time and space, Turns the world's ears to his native land, The poet is the greatest patriot.