The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
The Temple of the AgesFrederick George Scott (18611944)
T
The thunder’s voice no longer breaks their rest;
From bluest heights the sun beholds with rapture
The noble pose of each gigantic crest.
Which lingered idly here through autumn days;
The leaves have gone, the voices of the tempest
No longer roll to heaven their hymn of praise.
Pour down dark caverns to the infinite sea;
This awful peace has vexed their restless childhood;
They hurry from its dread solemnity.
And halting midway on the steep ascent,
The patient spruces hold their breath for wonder,
Nor shake the snow with which their boughs are bent.
Huge shadows creep among these mighty walls,
And on the haunting ghosts of bygone ages
The dreamy splendour of the starlight falls.
In all their treasures ’neath the hungry sand,
Can show a sight so awful and majestic
As this waste temple in this newer land.
His servants, fire and elemental war;
The Titan hands of Earthquake and of Ocean
These granite slabs and pillars laid in store.
The ages one by one have knelt and prayed,
Until the ghostly echoes of their worship
Come back and make man’s puny heart afraid.