Beneath the Red shadow of Olympus Mons,
At the Foot of that rugged, Martian Mountain,
At the doorway of his Cliffside Bower,
In the Solar-Wind-Whipped Morning,
The Martian Gray stood, and waited.
All the Pinkish Air was Free and empty,
All the Planet was Dark, yet Joyous,
And, before him, through the Stars,
Outward, toward those neighboring, Gaseous masses,
Passed, in stony swarms, the Asteroids,
Passed, their bordering-Belt,
Burning, Singing in the Cosmic Order.
Bright, and Earth-ward, shone the Sun,
Level spread the Space before him;
From its bosom leaped the Comet,
Sparkling, flashing in the Heavenly Abyss;
On it's margin, the streaking Tail of it's Blue Light,
Stood reflected on the ruddy Clay,
Of mighty Olympus Mons;
Every Star had its shadow,
Motionless on the Crimson Martian Sand.
From the Gray brow of the Martian Man,
Gone, was every trace of Sorrow,
As the Water from those Dry and Ancient Seas,
As the Life from in their Depths.
With a smile of Joy and Triumph,
With a look of Holy Exultation,
As of one, who, in a Divine Vision,
Sees, what is to be, but yet is not,
Stood and waited, The Native Martian Heathen.
Toward the Hazel Earth, his Hands were lifted,
Both the Pale Palms spread out, against it's Form,
And between the parted fingers,
Fell, in distant Sunshine, that Terran Ocean's Reflections,
On his features, Alien to those,
That dwelt whereupon he gazed.
Flecked with light, his naked shoulders,
As it falls and flecks an Earthly Fig-Tree,
Though, absent on his Red World,
Through, unknown, rifted Leaves and Branches.
Then, over the dark Skies floating, flying,
Something in the eternal distance,
Something in the pink mists of morning,
Loomed and lifted from the Third Planet,
Now seemed floating, now seemed flying,
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.
It was neither meteor nor fallen Star,
Over the Heavens floating, flying,
Through the purply mist of morning,
But a Shuttle-Craft with landing-gear,
Billowing a Skin-Gray fog
Upon on the Auburn sand,
Gleaming in it's splendor,
Flashing in the growing Light;
And within it, came a People,
From the distant World of Terra Firma,
From the dearest stone to Sol,
Came the blank and Gold-faced Evangelist, the Holy,
He the Priest of Prayer, the Human,
With the Godless Scientists and Sinning Soldiers.
And the noble Martian,
With his hands aloft extended,
Held aloft in sign of welcome,
Waited, full of exultation,
Till the bright Shuttle, with it's landing-rockets,
Grated on the Burgundy Soil,
Stranded on the Red and sandy margin,
Till the Gold-faced Priest, with lack for features,
By the Good, and Timely, Grace: Of Fate, or God;
With the Sacred Cross upon his chest,
Landed on the Martians' Sod.