Elias: An Epic of the Ages. Whitney Orson Ferguson

        Vast, voiceless oracles, whose intelligence

        Sleeps in the caverns of each stony heart,

        Yet breathes o'er all a boundless eloquence, 270

        What wealth historic might your words impart!

        Lone, looming, hermit of the hills, apart

        From where thy banded mates in union dwell!

        A master lyrist seemingly thou art,

        Chief harper of a host that round thee swell;

      And thine the Orphean boon[4], what could withstand thy spell?

        E'en now it whispers from the graven rock,

        Scribed with the lightning's pen, in sculpture bold,

        Defying time and tide and tempest shock,

        Frowning where seas and centuries have rolled. 280

        "Oh were my words[5] thus writ!" That sage of old,

        Knew he not well, ye mighty tomes of clay,

        How firm the trust your flinty page might hold?

        Have ye not scorned the fiats of decay?

      Are ye not standing now where nations passed away?

        Thrice wondrous things, once thine to wisely scan,

        Fast as thy frozen snow-crown, still in store,

        Hadst thou the melting gift[6]—of sovereign man

        The sunlike glory—mightest thou restore,

        Till learning's tide o'erwhelmed the shining shore, 290

        With rich revealings of lost realms that rose

        And fell like frost-hewn flowers thy face before;

        Blightings which brought them an untimely close—

      Perchance, of spirit lore, some mystic mine disclose.

        But like the laboring brain that burns to speak

        Mind's inmost thought, in deepest dungeon pent;

        Or liker still to inward boiling peak

        Of fires volcanic, vainly seeking vent

        Where adamantine bolts and bars prevent;—

        Thou'rt doomed to utter stillness, and shalt keep 300

        The burden of thy bearing till is rent

        Yon heavenly veil, and earth and air and deep

      Tell secrets that shall rouse the dead from solemn sleep.

        And must I be as mute, O silent mount!

        Muse of all Melody, shall I not sing?—

        Burst these dumb bars, when e'en yon babbling fount

        May find in every breeze a wafting wing,

        Afar its lightest murmured word to fling?

        Where art thou, ancient Soul of Solemn Song?

        Asleep? Then wake! Wherefore art slumbering? 310

        The world hath need of thee, and waiteth long.

      Strike, strike again thy harp, and thrill the listening throng!

        Thus musing, lone upon a beetling brow,

        Quaffing from unseen fount, those wilds among,

        The spirit of the sun-kissed torrent flow,

        Methought some lofty, caverned cliff had rung

        With echoings of a more than mortal tongue;

        Though softly clear the mournful cadence broke,

        As notes from off the weird-toned viol flung.

        Or was it yon lone cloud that muttering spoke, 320

      Heralding the storm king's wrathful shout and shivering stroke?

        Amazed I listened. Did I more than dream?

        Had random word aroused unhoped reply?

        Or was it sound whose import did but seem?

        Hark!—for again it rolls along the sky:

        "Then question hast thou none? Or none wouldst ply,

        Save to thy soul in meditative strain,

        Or heedless winds that wander idly by?

        So be it; still to me thy purpose plain,

      Thy hidden wish revealed, nor thus revealed in vain." 330

        While freshening waves of woodland-scented air

        Widened the spell of that immortal tone;

        While, as on threshold of a lion's lair,

        Speechless I stood, as stricken into stone;

        Methought the sun with lessening splendor shone,

        As if that wandering cloud obscured his gaze.

        Then burst the glory from his midday throne!

        Turning, mine eye beheld, in rapt amaze,

      What memory ne'er would lose were life of endless days.

        A stately form, of giant stature tall; 340

        Of hoary aspect, venerable and grave;

        Whose curling locks and beard of copious fall

        Vied the white foam of ocean's storm-whipt wave.

        The firm-fixt eye flashed lightnings from its cave;

        Far-darting penetration's gaze combined

        With wisdom's milder light. Of study gave

        Deep evidence that brow by learning lined,

      Thought's towering throne, where ruled his realm a monarch

            mind.

        The spirit's garb—for spirit so he seemed— 350

        Fell radiant in many a flowing fold;

        A robe antique, by modern limners deemed

        Befitting monk or eremite of old.

        Head, hands, and feet were bare; the presence bold

        With majesty, e'en as a god might wear,

        While condescending to a mortal mould.

        He spake—the voice no longer thrilled with fear;

      Like some vast organ swell, it charmed, enchained, the ear.

        "Long have I watched and waited, but no sound

        Broke the wild stillness of this stern abode, 360

        Save thunder's fiery foot-print smote the ground,

        Or far beneath some torrent's fury flowed;

        Anon the screaming eagle past me rode;

        The seeker after gold, with toilsome stride,

        And eager eye to fix the shining lode,

        Hath paused and panted on the hill's steep side;

      But none, for greater things, till now have hither hied.

        "And thou, O pensive crier in the waste,

        Invoker