Once, O Rameses! my tall mass Not the ages could destroy. But it fell cut down like grass. Paris took it for a toy. Now my granite form behold: Sentinel the livelong day Twixt a spurious temple old, And the _Chambre des Deputes!_ On the spot where _Louis Seize _ Died, they set me, meaningless, With my secret which outweighs Cycles of forgetfulness. Sparrows lean defile my head, Where the ibis used to light, And the fierce gypaetus spread Talons gold and plumage white. And the Seine, the drip of street, Unclean river, crime's abyss, Now befouls mine ancient feet, Which the Nile was wont to kiss: Hoary Nile that, crowned and stern, To its lotus-laden shores From its ever bended urn Crocodiles for gudgeon pours! Golden chariots gem-belit Of the Pharaohs' pageanting Grazed my side the cab-wheels hit, Bearing out the last poor king. By my granite shape of yore Passed the priests, with stately pschent, And the mystic boat upbore, Emblemed and magnificent. But to-day, profane and wan, Camped between two fountains wide, I behold the courtesan In her carriage lounge with pride. From the first of year to last I must see the vulgar show-- Solons to the Council passed, Lovers to the woods that go! Oh, what skeletons abhorred, Hence, an hundred years, this race! Couched, unbandaged, on a board, In a nailed coffin's place. Never hypogeum kind, Safe from foul corruption's fear; Never hall where century-lined Generations disappear! Sacred soil of hieroglyph, And of sacerdotal laws, Where the Sphinx is waiting stiff, Sharpening on the stone its claws,-- Soil of crypt where echoes part, Where the vulture swoopeth free, All my being,--all my heart, O mine Egypt, weeps for thee! THE OBELISK IN LUXOR Where the wasted columns brood, Lonely sentinel stand I, In eternal solitude Facing all infinity. Dumb, with beauty unendowed, To the horizon limitless Spreads earth's desert like a shroud Stained by yellow suns that press. While above it, blue and clean, Is another desert cast-- Sky where cloud is never seen, Pure, implacable, and vast. And the Nile's great water-course Glazed with leaden pellicle Wrinkled by the river-horse Gleameth dead, unlustreful. All about the flaming isles, By a turbid water spanned, Hot, rapacious crocodiles Swoon and sob upon the sand. Perching motionless, alone, Ibis, bird of classic fame, From a carven slab of stone Reads the moon-god's sacred name. Jackals howl, hyenas grin, Famished hawks descend and cry. Down the heavy air they spin, Commas black against the sky. These the sounds of solitude, Where the sphinxes yawn and doze, Dull and passionless of mood, Weary of their endless pose. Child of sand's reflected shine, And of sun-rays fiercely bent, Is there ennui like to thine, Spleen of luminous Orient? Thou it was cried "Halt!" of yore To satiety of kings. Thou hast crushed me more and more With thine awful weight of wings.