 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
307
THE MEMPHIAN MUMMY.
“O, I could pass all relics
Left by the pomps of old,
To gaze on this rude monument
Cast in affection's mould.”
Mrs. Hemans.
Left by the pomps of old,
To gaze on this rude monument
Cast in affection's mould.”
Mrs. Hemans.
Daughter of Egypt, on thy shrunken face
The hues of life and health no longer glow;
And change hath written on thy coffin-case
Those words of mournful import—“long ago.”
The light, in thy unseeing eye, is dead—
Thy teeth no longer shame the ocean pearl:
The dewy freshness of thy lip hath fled,
And gone thy pride of curl.
The hues of life and health no longer glow;
And change hath written on thy coffin-case
Those words of mournful import—“long ago.”
The light, in thy unseeing eye, is dead—
Thy teeth no longer shame the ocean pearl:
The dewy freshness of thy lip hath fled,
And gone thy pride of curl.
The debt of nature myriads have paid,
And o'er them closed Oblivion's misty wave,
Since weeping friends thy breathless form arrayed
In the sad vesture of the starless grave.
Those hollow eyes with pleasure may have beamed,
Or tears, perhaps, that dusky cheek have wet;
Upon thy brow, for aught sage knows, hath gleamed
Some queenly coronet.
And o'er them closed Oblivion's misty wave,
Since weeping friends thy breathless form arrayed
In the sad vesture of the starless grave.
Those hollow eyes with pleasure may have beamed,
Or tears, perhaps, that dusky cheek have wet;
Upon thy brow, for aught sage knows, hath gleamed
Some queenly coronet.
Perchance thine ear, so very dull and cold,
The mystic lyre of Memnon often heard,
When sunrise tinged the morning sky with gold,
And all its strings melodiously stirred.
An infant may have slumbered in those arms,
That hang so still and nerveless by thy side;
Perchance some Pharaoh, yielding to thy charms,
Made thee his royal bride.
The mystic lyre of Memnon often heard,
When sunrise tinged the morning sky with gold,
And all its strings melodiously stirred.
An infant may have slumbered in those arms,
That hang so still and nerveless by thy side;
Perchance some Pharaoh, yielding to thy charms,
Made thee his royal bride.
308
The breathing statue and the speaking bust
Of all their grace and beauty have been reft,
And dome and tower have crumbled into dust
Since thy freed soul its mortal prison left.
Although the rock, for many ages, hid
Thy rigid features from the light of day,
Thou standest up, like Egypt's pyramid,
Defying stern decay.
Of all their grace and beauty have been reft,
And dome and tower have crumbled into dust
Since thy freed soul its mortal prison left.
Although the rock, for many ages, hid
Thy rigid features from the light of day,
Thou standest up, like Egypt's pyramid,
Defying stern decay.
Amid the chords of some love-kindling lute
Those taper fingers may have often strayed;
Thy tongue, which hath for centuries been mute,
To Apis or to Isis may have prayed.
When ancient Memphis was the seat of power—
When mirth and music reigned within her walls,
Perchance of throngs thou wert the worshipped flower,
That sought her princely halls.
Those taper fingers may have often strayed;
Thy tongue, which hath for centuries been mute,
To Apis or to Isis may have prayed.
When ancient Memphis was the seat of power—
When mirth and music reigned within her walls,
Perchance of throngs thou wert the worshipped flower,
That sought her princely halls.
The yellow sunlight falls upon thee now,
But cannot melt the icy chain of death;
The zephyr's wing is fanning thy dark brow,
But thou art reckless of its balmy breath.
When joy held empire in thy stony breast,
Hadst thou no haunt upon the Nile's green shore,
To muse upon his waters, when at rest,
Or listen to their roar?
But cannot melt the icy chain of death;
The zephyr's wing is fanning thy dark brow,
But thou art reckless of its balmy breath.
When joy held empire in thy stony breast,
Hadst thou no haunt upon the Nile's green shore,
To muse upon his waters, when at rest,
Or listen to their roar?
Did ever cross thy mind the chilling thought,
While drinking rapture from the vernal gale,
That e'er thy form by strangers would be bought,
And made the theme of many an erring tale?
When the last trump shall animate the tomb,
And call the dead from out the sea and earth—
Maiden, thy spirit will its dust resume,
Far from thy place of birth.
While drinking rapture from the vernal gale,
That e'er thy form by strangers would be bought,
And made the theme of many an erring tale?
When the last trump shall animate the tomb,
And call the dead from out the sea and earth—
Maiden, thy spirit will its dust resume,
Far from thy place of birth.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |