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.