Eight Harvard Poets/Neith

LAZARUS

AT morn we passed a hall where song
And dance had been and wine flowed free,
      And where, 'mid wrecks of revelry,
Had lain the feasters all night long.

They saw us through the mist of dawn,
      And, turning, called us to their feast —
      The sound of lutes and cymbals ceased —
But one He fixed His gaze upon.

In whose wide eyes there seemed to be —
      Behind the laughing, wine-flushed face
      And tilted ivy-crown's gay grace —
Faint glimpses of Eternity.

Then sad, the Master bowed His head,
      And, through the rosy twilight, dim,
      Walked up and softly spake to him:
"Art thou not he that late was dead?"

The drinker raised his cup on high,
      And murmured: "Priest of Nazareth,
      I am he thou didst raise from death —
Lo, thus I wait again to die!"

A CRUCIFIX

THIS was the cross of God on which men's eyes
Dwelt with the love of dead divinity,
As they who by the desolate orient sea
In battle made their sainted sacrifice,
Dreaming their boundless striving should devise
A symbol whereby men might know that he
Who wins his way on earth to victory,
Thus in his consummated sorrow dies.

All things are sacred to that tender sight:
Time's ancient altars whence strange incense curled
Innocent to the unknown gods; the light
Of love is thine; faith's banner is unfurled,
Even where the farthest watchmen, through the night,
Call on the cloud-wrapped ramparts of the world.