The Pagan

I walked into her Temple, as of yore My Tyrian sires, allured by cryptic signs; But sudden as I entered closed the door Upon the hope that mortal love resigns Before her ancient, myrtle-bowered shrines. I sorrowed not; though every lamp I lit Flamed up in speech articulate and said, Beware, O foolish Worshipper! ’t is writ: “Who craves a gift shall give his soul instead, Who lights a lamp is curséd of the dead.” I did not heed; I passed from shrine to shrine, Filling the lamps with oil, the Fane with light; But when I approached, O One Eternal, thine, I heard the terror of her tongue, and Night Was creeping on her brow of malachite. I did not stop, although the votive oil I poured into thine urn to water turned; But when the Dawn her enchantments came to foil, The secret of thy clemency I learned— Again the oil thine altar burned. The suddenly the Temple shook and swayed, And all the shrines, except thine, disappeared; Even so her heart, by knowledge undismayed, On Love’s one altar with thy hand upreared, To Love’s one God is evermore endeared.