  By HATTIE A. COOLEY. The great, warm, yellow western sky, Glows down on their eager faces; Horizon tints of rose float nigh Above the landscape’s graces. The sun-god’s light has power to thrill The priest with his victim gory; The golden waves of sunset fill Each soul with their mystic glory. But in the twilight, gray and dim, Both Faith and Hope are sleeping, And not a thought goes up to Him Who holds the sun in keeping. At last, on priests who sacrifice, On souls and altars burning, A silent, double darkness lies, And hides them past discerning. Uncounted years since then have fled, And buried deep the story Of the silent nation lying dead Amid these ruins hoary. The sun still shines as bright to-day, And glows as warm and tender On stone-heaps gray, and dust and clay, As once on the temple’s splendor. And looking back we strain to see, Upon these crumbling pages, A glimpse of what the world would be Shut out from God for ages. decorative line |
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