A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet Xxiii

Voltaire and Rousseau, these were thy twin priests, Proud Mother Nature, on thy opening day. The first with bitter gibes perplexed the feasts Of thy high rival, and prepared the way; The other built thy shrine. 'Twas here, men say, De Warens lived, whose pleasure was the text Of the new gospel of the sons of clay, The latest born of time, by faith unvexed. Here for a century with reverent feet Pilgrims, oppressed with barrenness of soul, Toiled in their tears as to a Paraclete. On these white hills they heard Earth's thunders roll In sneers outpreaching the lost voice of God, And shouted ``Ichabod, ay, Ichabod!''