Egypt :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ah me, the years, they glide away so fast
That ere the night begins, the day is past,
And though we fear not that Osiris waits
To try by Truth the balance of our fates,
Nor shudder at Proserpina's brown gloom
And thronéd Aeacus' judicial doom,
We dread, my friend, much more, in the inner hall
Of our own spirit to be held in thrall:
Our memory's haunted chamber, where the ghosts
Of all our murdered moments range their hosts;

And scarce, alas, our fancy is so fond
That we can catch faint melodies, beyond
The noisy world, of Greek or Roman lyre,
Or Hebrew harps of more divine desire,
Or “the undisturbéd song of pure concent”
By clarion calls to onset never rent.

But think you 'tis an enviable plight
Neither to dread the depth or hope the height,
And yet have no assurance, when we end,
That we shall lose our Self, and keep our Friend?
No, not the lessening years, that quickly lapse,
Affright us, but their whispered word, “Perhaps,
When we conduct you whither all must go,
The old Friend will not greet you, but that Foe.”