The Silent Races (1880, Dupre)



 The Silent Races. By L. J. Dupre. 1880.

High oe'r the desert's scorching plain Rises the Orient’s stately train  Of strangely sculptured stone; Grim sentries of a vanished race, Guarding from ruin's stealthy pace Dim records which their marbles trace.

The gaunt-eyed sphinx essays to speak; Her moveless lip and hueless cheek  Have found a human tone; Over the hopes, the joys, the fears, The tumult, of the rushing years, The listening world her whisper hears.

Dark Egypt's lore of hearts and homes Lies in her dust-crowned catacombs;  Her pyramids of stone, Like giant volumes in the sand, Teem with the records of her land, Writ by the marble's stony hand.

The nameless altars, rude and dark, That worship of the Druid's mark,  Ring with a monotone Wild as the symbolistic line That rose o'er Thor and Odin's shrine, Where now the pallid moonbeams shine.

The ruined abbey's wind-rocked bell, Whose elfin echoes rise and  Swell, Like mighty Spirits moan — The owl that watches in the tower — The wind, a wandering troubadour — Chant sad requiems o'er and o'er.

This western world her voice of might Lifts up amid her dreamless night,  With weird and wondrous tone; For silent, vanished races sleep Beneath her tossing forests deep, Where hoary-headed ages sleep, While restless murmurs round them creep.

Each nameless mound that plants its base Within this mighty wilderness  Speaks with a mystic tone. Around each rude-shaped urn and vase Flit dim shadows of a race Whose voiceless story God can trace.

Whence came they? Whither did they go? What myriad tales of joy and woe  Resound with mingled tone Above this consecrated ground, That speaks with hollow, ghastly sound, Its orator, a nameless mound.

And did they love? and did they hate? Did they in pain and pleasure wait  With human laugh or moan? No answer comes, no music rings, No Solon speaks, no Homer sings Where Sleep and Silence reign as kings.

The dark-eyed maiden's liquid song Ringing these limpid waves along,  Has left no echoing tone. In nameless graves, they slumber well, Where Lethean billows ebb and swell On shining shores of Asphodel.

