 | The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival |  |
147
[Man is born to die]
[_]
I once thought of writing a poem in the irregular measure of Thalaba, the scene to be laid in Peru, among the Incas. I however wrote only the following morceaux.
And so are nations. Thus I mused,
As on the Inca's pyramid
I sat and gazed around.
Here, methought, a royal race,
To whom a nation bowed,
As if they were the sons of Heaven,
Came and paid their adoration
To the all-o'erseeing sun.
And where is now that royal race?
Gone, and mingled with the ages
That have passed away.
Here a countless multitude
Of self-made slaves, through weary years,
Toiled and built this stately pile.
Years on years have rolled away,
Since they who built it lived.
Still it rears its massy front,
And stands unmoved, in proud defiance,
'Gainst the scythe of time
And ruin's crumbling hand;
While the same winds bleach the bones
Of the poor slave, that toiled,
And the great king, who bade.
| The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival | |