# Landon in The New Monthly 1836/The Dream in the Temple of Serapis

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The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 46, Pages 30 to 31
(30)
THE DREAM IN THE TEMPLE OF SERAPIS.
"During Alexander the Great's illness, Peithou, Attalus, Demophon, Peucestas, Cleomenes, Minedas, and Seleucus, slept in the Temple of Serapis, and asked the god if it would be desirable and better for Alexander to be conveyed to the temple, and to supplicate the god, and be healed by him. The answer forbade his removal, declaring that it would be better for him to remain where he was. The companions reported this answer, and Alexander not long after expired, as if, under all circumstances, that were the better fate ."—Royal Diary.
The heavy night is falling,
 A dark and silent night,
And aloud the storm is calling
 From the mountains' wooded height,
There is weeping in the pines.
But a voice of louder sorrow
 Arises from the plain,
For the nations fear the morrow,
 And ask for aid in vain,
From the old ancestral shrines
In the still and stately temple—
The temple of the god.
The kingly chiefs are seven
 Who seek that ancient shrine,
To ask of night and heaven
 An answer and a sign;
Pale as shadows pass they by.
They are warriors, yet they falter,
 As with feet unshod
They approach thy mighty altar,
 O Assyrian god!
Will the secret of the sky
Fill the stately temple—
The temple of the god?
Conquerors they enter,
 In the conqueror's name;
The altar in the centre,
 Burnt with undying flame—
Day and night that flame is fed.
Lamps from many a marble column
 In the distance burn,
And the light is sad and solemn
 As a funeral urn.
For the presence of the dead
Haunts the mystic temple—
The temple of the god.
Seven warriors were their number,
 Seven future kings;
Down they laid them to their slumber
 Mid the silvery rings
Of the fragrant smoke that swept
From the golden vases streaming,
 With their spice and oil,
And the rich frankincense steaming,
 Half a summer's spoil.
Lull'd by such perfume they slept
In the silent temple—
The temple of the god.
Lay they in that sleep enchanted,
 On the marble floor,
Many things their slumber haunted,
 Things that were no more.
'Twas the phantasm of life:
Fierce and rugged bands were crowding
 Round their youthful king;
Shaggy hides their wild forms shrouding,
 While the echoes ring
With the shouts that herald strife;
Such now wake the quiet temple—
The temple of the god.
Next, a southern noon is sleeping
 On embattled lines,
There the purple robe is sweeping,
 There the red gold shines.
That young chief his own has won—
He who when his warriors tasked him,
 With his heart's free scope,
What was left himself, they ask'd him,
 And he answer'd, "Hope."
What he said, that hath he done;
And his glory fills the temple—
The temple of the god.
Victory is like sunshine o'er him,
 Wealth is at his side,
Crowns are in the dust before him,
 Earth hath bow'd her pride
At the whisper of his breath.
But that laurell'd one is dying
 On a fever'd bed:
"Leave him where he now is lying,
 There the king is best," it said;
Such the oracle of death,
In that fated temple—
The temple of the god.
Such the moral of his story,
 Such was heaven's reply;
Amid wealth, and power, and glory,
 It is best to die,
Unto all that answer came.
From the highest to the lowest
 Life draws deep a wasted breath:
Fate! thy best boon thou bestowest
 When thou givest death.
Each that oracle may claim,
The words of that dark temple—
The temple of the god.
L. E. L.