Poems By Henry Nutcombe Oxenham. Third Edition |
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THE LIFE-DIRGE OF EGYPT'S DEAD. |
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24
VI. THE LIFE-DIRGE OF EGYPT'S DEAD.
“His relations sit around the child that is being born, and bewail him,
for all the evils he must suffer when he is born, reckoning up all the ills of
humanity; but the dead they bury amid sport and exultation, enumerating
the miseries from which he is now freed, being in the enjoyment of the
greatest happiness.”—Herod. v. 4
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O weep for the Living, and not for the Dead,
For the dead no more can sorrow;
The brief joyless day of existence has fled,
And their night shall know no morrow;—
O weep not for them, for they peacefully sleep,
With the mighty who fell before them;
Nile's time-honoured floods by their resting-place sweep,
And the Pyramids shadow o'er them.
Weep not for the Dead, for the feverish pulsation
Of life-blood is chilled in their veins,
The unsatisfied hope, the unsolaced vexation,
The dreary succession of pains,
Are at rest, and for ever;—the false fleeting smile
Of the flowers that bloom on life's waste
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Which are wormwood and gall to the taste.
O rejoice for the Dead; for they quietly sleep,
Where no grief evermore shall assail them,
In the stone-cradled cells of the Pyramids deep,
With loud exultation we hail them!
Alas for the Living! O pray that on those
Who yet in the dark womb linger,
Ere they wake from their ante-natal repose,
Death may lay his icy finger.
But weep ye, O weep for the innocent child,
Just fresh from the fierce birth-throes,
For him let the death-wail rise shrilly and wild,
Who is born into this world's woes.
As a tempest-tost voyage on a shoreless sea,
Is the life that lies before him;
Like the spring-tides of Nile o'er the sandy lea
Shall the floods of sorrow roll o'er him.
We may praise the free life of the bodiless spirit,
Ere the trammels of flesh have confined it,
But the burden of suffering earth's children inherit
What hand may avail to unbind it?
We may hymn the repose of the passionless Dead,
For they sleep, and their sleep is unbroken;
But alas! o'er the fruit of the nuptial bed
May no blessing of ours be spoken.
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When the cold morn is cheerlessly breaking;
Nor the crown of the king, nor the robe of the priest,
Can quiet the heart that is aching.
For ever the corpse at the merriest revel
Its joyless monition is giving,
For ever a dim pre-announcement of evil
Is blent with the life of the living.
Then weep for the Living and not for the Dead,
For the Dead everlastingly slumber,
But O let your tears o'er the new-born be shed,
For their woes no prediction can number.
| Poems | |