III. She is Lifted with the Old Gods into the Western Sky
The walls widened, and were the horizon's rim.
The roof arched up, and was the infinite sky.
Where were those gods, who had lived in priest-carved stone?
Their souls were high above the universe.
Their outspread plumes now filled the uttermost heavens
In the marvellous west, where all our dead have gone.
Cæsar, Cæsarion, and the Queen,
(She was no longer Cleopatra),
The last to be raised to heaven through heathen pride,
Wearing sandals of lapis-lazuli,
In a moment were one flash of ascending light.
They climbed blue steps, and sat with the good Osiris,
At the top of his stairway, “First of the Westerners,”
Bowered in the flowers of the deep western heavens,
There where the terrible star-lotus blooms.
They took their thrones with the forty-two assessors,
With the four sons of Horus, and with Sekmet,
With Thoth and Maat, and the Memphian Chivalry,
Anubis and King Menes and his train.
They took their thrones with Isis and with Nepthys,
Hatshepsut, Tiy and the strange Ikhnaton,
With Alexander, with the Ptolemies,
With Amon-Ra, and his Macedonian sons.
She stood with young Cæsarion in her arms,
She stood with shadowy Cæsar in that sky.
She kissed him into pride and power again.
Beneath their feet were every sun and star,
The Thrones and The Terrace of a Million Years,
And time, and fear, and the whirling universe.
And the Book of the Dead was rolled up for that day.
The judgment scene was ended. Far below
The priests of the jewelled temples of Abydos,
Thinking not of the forgotten Queen,
(She who was no longer Cleopatra),
Of Cæsar, Cæsarion, or Antony,
Sang their sweet songs of the soul's resurrection,
Song to Osiris, “First of the Westerners,”
Thinking only of their beloved dead,
Of mummies newly sealed in their holy tombs.
Set, the beautiful, the hard and proud,
Stealer of vases of most precious ointment—
Stealer of red, pitiful, human hearts—
Determined still to win the universe,
Set, the Accuser, victor in his fashion,
Since, to accuse, to him was victory,
Insulter of judges and stars to the highest sky,
He, who accused Job long ago,
In the judgment hall of Jehovah of the Jews,
Then laid his hand upon him through long years:—
Set, the Accuser, resuming his name of Satan,
Wearing sandals of hell-fire, laughing, not smiling,
Barking his terrified bark, marched far to the north,
There to accuse and tempt in the Dead Sea Desert,
And on a pinnacle of King Herod's temple,
And on a flower-decked mountain of meditation:—
The son of a girl, fairer than Cleopatra,
A son of Amon-Ra, prouder than Cæsar,
And lovelier than the young Cæsarion.
On reading the latest proof of this poem, I have found a book that elaborately confirms the political hypothesis:—“The Life and Times of Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt—A Study in the Origin of the Roman Empire,” by Arthur Weigall, published by Thomas Butterworth, Limited, 15 Bedford Street, London W.C. 2; and G. P. Putnam's Sons, 2 West 45th Street, New York City. But the same idea may be found in Ferrero's “Greatness and Decline of Rome,” in all the comment on Cleopatra. I have outlined this poem of mine as a possible photoplay in “The Art of the Moving Picture,” pages 254–260.
