Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SCIENCE, by MARCUS S. C. RICKARDS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SCIENCE, by                    
First Line: Her temple crowns the common haunts
Last Line: And glorifies our mortal dream.
Subject(s): Nature; Science; Truth; Youth; Scientists


HER Temple crowns the common haunts,
And they who deem her word Divine
Must bend to one whose silence daunts
The crowd at Superstition's shrine.

That gushing Oracle of old
Draws tender souls that will not brook
A steep ascent, a goddess cold,
Who never smiles in human look --

That seek a Guide whose sure replies
Confirm the heart's raw fear and hope,
Remove the scare that terrifies,
And find for faery dreams full scope.

The many throng her still, alack!
As in the hoary World's fond youth;
Nor reck that her prompt answers lack
The signature Divine of Truth.

They ask in tears, they leave with smiles,
They rest and cling -- what need they more?
And so that Prophetess beguiles
The credulous with balm of yore.

Her Fane stands mid the busy streets,
With open portals wooing all:
And O the crowd one ever meets
Equipped for the delicious thrall!

I seek the True. I scale the hill
Where Science queens it in bleak state:
The path is rough, the clime is chill --
What matter so I win her gate?

I knock and enter -- lo! she stands,
A Seeress mute, austere and stern:
I kneel -- I clasp imploring hands --
"O teach!" I plead, "for I would learn."

Unmoved, she opens out a scroll:
O joy! 'tis writ by Truth's own pen --
'Tis luminous -- its leaves unroll,
And flash deep secrets on my ken.

Mine to win all by patient quest,
That touches life beneath the sun;
And yet -- and yet -- this fevered breast
Still clamours for a balm unwon,

The balm my spirit craved from birth:
Ah! empty dream to think that shine
Thrown on the mysteries of Earth
Could satisfy till that be mine.

Who -- what unveils it? for that one
Shall have my knee, my lip, my heart:
O Science! mid thy truth, can none
Uncurtain aught to heal this smart?

She shakes her head -- she scarce has shown
The vulgar Oracle at fault:
Where shall I go? my heart is lone,
My spirit faints, my footsteps halt.

Back to the Fane of ages? Well.
Perchance I might climb higher still,
And yet be further from the spell
That sheds relief on mortal ill.

All Nature's cures lie near at hand:
The dockleaf tends the nettle's sting;
Supply waits ever on demand;
By the hot wayside smiles the spring.

What if this flow gush forth so free
Because the Fountain is Divine?
What if one high credential be
The very charm that haunts the Shrine?

What if the heart's just Author deemed
That He would wrong its fairest claim
Unless to Truth's celestial beam
It glowed, and kindled into flame?

Weak Superstition! call her so;
Naught boots a name -- yet what if Wealth
Through this time-honoured channel flow
From the Eternal Home of Health; --

A channel clogged, befouled, defiled,
Which naught can purge, none wholly clear,
Yet holding all that has beguiled
Sad restless souls through Time's career?

Dark Superstition! true -- but Stars
Smile through the deep of midnight gloom;
And Luna glimmers thro' the bars
Of each imprisoned sleeper's room.

The dark expanse enshrines the Light,
That inextinguishable gleam
Which silvers o'er this dusky night
And glorifies our mortal dream.





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