Sonett-Forum

TO THE SIBYLS.

Where are ye, Sibyls, ye who on far shores,
Persic, or Libyan, or Cumsean cave,
Awing the world with age or beauty, gave
Response that Time e'en yet fears and adores,

Still questioning; for each stroke of Charon's oars,
As ghosts of years go by his icy wave,
Sends upwards through the portals of the grave
A vague dread voice, that like an earthquake roars ;

And, " when above the dust and unclean bones
Of this vile generation shall be cast
A little earth," some listening seer exclaims,

" Thus shall it be, and thus,"—meanwhile the blast
Of strife goes on; and battling codes, or thrones,
From the blue sky the quiet rainbow shames.