The World’s Tragedy

54 THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. With the sun glittering amorously. But now, o Pan, the whole world falls With its reeling rout of Bacchanals Into the gulf, and thy wild note Shrills up from the black Nothing’s throat Like an enchanted harp that playeth Melodies, melodies magniloquent of death. Yea ! o thou golden wan strange-smiling one, Thou art not only cold. Thine ivory came from fierce bull-elephants That trampled Persians in their battle-rage ; Thy gold was found by men most grave and sage Among the sands of a strange river. How my breast pants ! How my sides quiver ! Surely the breath of God is bubbling in These veins, their blood that held its calm discourse Lit with electric force By Him for whom I have done sin, Sin grievous against every part To purge the whole through to the heart. And lo ! thine eyes that dazzle me Like peacock’s fans with many a million Eyes of azure and vermilion