3 min read
Слушать

Agamemnon’s Tomb

Uplift the ponderous, golden mask of death,

And let the sun shine on him as it

How many thousand years agone!

This worm-defying, uncorrupted lid,

Behold the young, heroic face, round-eyed,

Of one who in his full-flowered manhood died;

Of nobler frame than creatures of to-day,

Swathed in fine linen cerecloths fold on fold,

With carven weapons wrought of bronze and gold,

Accoutred like a warrior for the fray.

We gaze in awe at these huge-modeled limbs,

Shrunk in death's narrow house, but hinting

Their ancient majesty; these sightless

Whose living eyes the eyes of Helen met;

The speechless lips that ah! what tales might

Of earth's morning-tide when gods did

Amidst a generous-fashioned, god-like race,

Who dwarf our puny semblance, and who

The secret soul of Beauty for their own,

While all our art but crudely apes their grace.

We gather all the precious relics up,

The golden buttons chased with wondrous craft,

The sculptured trinkets and the crystal cup,

The sheathed, bronze sword, the knife with brazen haft.

Fain would we wrest with curious eyes from

Unnumbered long-forgotten histories,

The deeds heroic of this mighty man,

On whom once more the living daylight beams,

To shame our littleness, to mock our dreams,

And the abyss of centuries to span.

Yet could we rouse him from his blind repose,

How might we meet his searching questionings,

Concerning all the follies, wrongs, and woes,

Since his great day whom men call King of Kings,

Victorious Agamemnon?

How might

Those large, clear eyes confront, which

Would view us as a poor, degenerate race,

Base-souled and mean-proportioned?

What

Give to the beauty-loving Greek's heart-cry,

Seeking his ancient gods in vacant space?

What should he find within a world grown cold,

Save doubt and trouble?

To his sunny creedA thousand gloomy, warring sects succeed.

How of the Prince of Peace might he be told,

When over half the world the war-cloud lowers?

How would he mock these faltering hopes of ours,

Who knows the secret now of death and fate!

Humbly we gaze on the colossal frame,

And mutely we accept the mortal shame,

Of men degraded from a high estate.

0
0
Give Award

Emma Lazarus

Emma Lazarus (July 22, 1849 – November 19, 1887) was an American author of poetry, prose, and translations, as well as an activist for Jewish ca…

Other author posts

Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments

Reading today

Пальчик дорогой
Ryfma
Ryfma is a social app for writers and readers. Publish books, stories, fanfics, poems and get paid for your work. The friendly and free way for fans to support your work for the price of a coffee
© 2024 Ryfma. All rights reserved 12+