| |
(From Ruins of Many Lands)
HAIL! Egypt! land of ancient pomp and pride, | |
| Where Beauty walks by hoary Ruin’s side; | |
| Where Plenty reigns, and still the seasons smile, | |
| And rolls—rich gift of God!—exhaustless Nile. | |
| Land of the pyramid and temple lone! | 5 |
| Whose fame, a star, on earth’s dark midnight shone; | |
| Bright seat of wisdom, graced with arts and arms, | |
| Ere Rome was built, or smiled fair Athens’ charms; | |
| What owes the past, the living world to thee? | |
| All that refines, sublimes humanity. | 10 |
| The tall papyrus whispering seems to say, | |
| Here rose the letters Cadmus bore away. | |
| The Greek to thee his Jove and Bacchus owes, | |
| With many a tale that charms, and thought that glows. | |
| In thy famed schools the Samian learnt his lore, | 15 |
| That souls, though wandering, live forevermore; | |
| The giant structures piled on Gizeh’s plain | |
| Speak of the sages watching heaven’s bright train, | |
| Who first years, months divided, traced afar | |
| The comet’s course, and named each glittering star. * * * * * | 20 |
| Worshipped of old, whence flows the Nile’s proud wave? | |
| From what far spring, green vale, or sunless cave? | |
| Vainly its fountains curious pilgrims seek; | |
| The solveless mystery ages fail to break. | |
| Sure on the spring some god hath set his seal, | 25 |
| Sworn the bright waters never to reveal: | |
| But if mid Ethiop wilds, or Lunar steeps, | |
| Her secret charge the jealous Naiad keeps, | |
| Sleeking her locks unseen in that bright well, | |
| And planting flowers where only sylphs may dwell, | 30 |
| What boots it? bounding from his cradling-place, | |
| Young Nile comes forth, to run his giant race, | |
| Pours down Sennar, and washes Nubia’s wild, | |
| Fresh, full, and free, as when first Nature smiled; | |
| Foams o’er the granite ridge by Souan’s shore, | 35 |
| With flashing billow, and with sullen roar; | |
| Still sees the temple crown his palmy banks, | |
| And hoary Sphinxes sleep, in long-drawn ranks. | |
| What though no more the priest on Isis calls, | |
| Or grand processions sweep from Memphis’ walls, | 40 |
| Praying the flood to rise o’er bower and field, | |
| Still swell the waves, and wonted blessings yield; | |
| And sweet the stream to traveller’s thirsty lip, | |
| As when the Egyptian deemed it heaven to sip; | |
| And green the flags, and fair the lotus-flower, | 45 |
| As when that babe, within his bulrush-bower, | |
| The embryo leader, Fame’s immortal heir, | |
| Smiled on the royal maids who found him there. | |
| |
