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