Asa M. Bolles

IN that proud temple of the Sun,

Which rose to heaven on Balbee’s towers,

Amid the altars, there was one,

Whose only offerings were flowers;

When morning o’er the glittering dome

Was blushing from her eastern home,

Fresh garlands to that shrine were given

Of flowers—bright flowers bathed in heaven.

And Persian girls, with deep blue eyes

Of love, and clustering raven hair,

And brows as pure as their own skies,

Were gather’d with their rose-wreaths there,

To breathe their orisons and twine

Their garlands on that lovely shrine,

Whose incense, at the day-god’s flame,

Rose to the skies, from whence it came.

Beautiful there those bright ones knelt,

Where Morn’s first holy light was flowing

Pure from its crystal throne—they felt

The day-spring in their bosom’s glowing

With life and joy—as through the aisles

Their god came beaming all in smiles

And love—oh! who could wish to part

From that sweet worship of the heart!

The Persian’s fane has perished—gone

The shrine—the worship of the free

All—all have faded like the tone

Of music o’er the moonlit sea—

No laughing eyes—no raven hair—

No dewy wreaths are sparkling there—

Faded is every peerless gem,

And beauty has gone down like them.

But love will have its altars still,

And there is yet a worship born,

Of hearts, that feel the joyous thrill

Of light and beauty in their morn;

Hope’s deep-toned music lingers there

Amid the roses and the air.

Breathes incense all—while from above

Bliss sparkles o’er the shrine of love.

Such be this volume—let no trace

Of sadness blight one leaflet here—

The heart’s pure offerings to grace

And loveliness should have no tear

Amid their blossoms—but the dews

Of heaven should mingle with their hues;

And all things fair and brightest twine

Their wreaths of gladness o’er the shrine.

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