Frederick George Scott




In each man’s heart a secret temple stands
    For rites idolatrous of praise and prayer;
    And dusky idols through the incensed air,
On single thrones, or grouped in curious bands,
Gaze at the lamp upheld in memory’s hands,—
    Some richly carved, with face of beauty rare,
    Some with brute heads and bosoms foul and bare,
Yet crowned with gold and gems from many lands.

Take now thy torch, descend the winding years,
    The silent stairway to thy secret shrine,
        And see what Dagon crowns the topmost shelf
With front aggressive, served through hopes and fears
    In ceaseless cult by love that counts divine
        His every blemish,—is not Dagon SELF? [Page 125]