IV

Who is it loometh o’er the Steppes at e’en, A giant from the sunrise of man’s race, Statured of eld, that immemorial face Hewn out of Ararat, in which we glean, And in the froward, patriarchal mien, An old tale told in many a furrowed trace, Moulded before the Sphynx crouched in her place, By passion uncontrollable and clean. For he hath sat with Abram in the tent, And gazed on Hebron, till the blue heaven broke Over them into stars. Then he went on Down all the ages ageless and unbent, Till in this later world of lesser folk ’Mongst men he towers the eternal Mastodon.