Cheops
O SIRIS , Apis, Isis, gods indeed!
Their temples have been closed since I was crowned,
And still the sun and moon their journeys speed,
And that fat, crescent-fronted bull has found
The goad stronger than god, if he be that.
Now am I king, powerful as liberty
From counsel, law, religion, can estate
The monarch of the mightiest monarchy
While life is mine: there is the filthy fly
That spoils my dainty dish—Cheops must die.
And shall I then inhabit bird or beast?
I'd be a bird to live a life on high;
Of dew to drink, on luscious fruit to feast,
Some splendid, noble bird—the Phœnix, I!
In Araby the blest my home shall be,
Where balmy winds caress each spicy grove,
And dally sweetly with the smiling sea,
Where all the elements are linked in love.
There shall my shining crest and beauteous neck
Of purple feathers gemmed with golden ones,
My snow-white tail with here and there a fleck
Like evening crimson, and my seeing suns
Flash on the blue of heaven when noon is bright,
And gleam a gorgeous spectre in the night,
The wonder of the world, the theme of seers,
For countless leases of a thousand years.
Methinks I'd sooner be a beast or bird
Than enter once again a human frame;
For spirits are in human flesh interred
Not wedded unto strength, or winged with flame:
And use and wont, fate's angels, have disposed
Even of Cheops' life, though less than more:
But wherefore should there be on me imposed
One subtle bond; wherefore should I deplore
A thought unproved, a wish ungratified,
Because of anything to be defied?
Why should I sympathise at all with men?
The world and its inhabitants exist
For kings alone: to use my chattels then,
Clogging humanity being thus dismissed.
The race of men hath issued none knows where,
Even like a locust-cloud in harvest-time;
And when its pasture, earth, is nibbled bare,
It shall fare someward to some unknown clime.
The greater part of time to gain the less
Men spend in toil and sleep, two kinds of death,
And momentarily their lives possess
In feeding, laughing, breeding; not in breath.
Each generation passes, living, dying,
And thinks itself somewhat—yea, so much worth,
That the successive ages magnifying
The individual life have seen far forth
To a mirage of immortality,
Imaged from life's lasting reality.
O foolish men who think yourselves so great,
Ye are but fires that burn a little bout,
And being used to mould some toy by fate,
Transmit your flames, then go for ever out.
Proud-blooded men, I'll teach you what ye are
I'll stop your spring-like health, and blast your flowers;
I'll set your petty happiness ajar;
Ye shall no more have any happy hours:
I will be fate, and ye shall be my jests,
Things merely to fulfil all my behests.
Ye shall be lashed to work, and worked to death
At labour neither beautiful nor good.
Useful, good, beautiful?—these words are breath,
And all is vanity. Hold firm my mood.
And Egypt that believes itself so wise,
Shall bear the cost and sorely agonise,
To rear avowedly what now it makes
Unwittingly, huge nothing.
Their temples have been closed since I was crowned,
And still the sun and moon their journeys speed,
And that fat, crescent-fronted bull has found
The goad stronger than god, if he be that.
Now am I king, powerful as liberty
From counsel, law, religion, can estate
The monarch of the mightiest monarchy
While life is mine: there is the filthy fly
That spoils my dainty dish—Cheops must die.
And shall I then inhabit bird or beast?
I'd be a bird to live a life on high;
Of dew to drink, on luscious fruit to feast,
Some splendid, noble bird—the Phœnix, I!
In Araby the blest my home shall be,
Where balmy winds caress each spicy grove,
And dally sweetly with the smiling sea,
Where all the elements are linked in love.
There shall my shining crest and beauteous neck
Of purple feathers gemmed with golden ones,
My snow-white tail with here and there a fleck
Like evening crimson, and my seeing suns
Flash on the blue of heaven when noon is bright,
And gleam a gorgeous spectre in the night,
The wonder of the world, the theme of seers,
For countless leases of a thousand years.
Methinks I'd sooner be a beast or bird
Than enter once again a human frame;
For spirits are in human flesh interred
Not wedded unto strength, or winged with flame:
And use and wont, fate's angels, have disposed
Even of Cheops' life, though less than more:
But wherefore should there be on me imposed
One subtle bond; wherefore should I deplore
A thought unproved, a wish ungratified,
Because of anything to be defied?
Why should I sympathise at all with men?
The world and its inhabitants exist
For kings alone: to use my chattels then,
Clogging humanity being thus dismissed.
The race of men hath issued none knows where,
Even like a locust-cloud in harvest-time;
And when its pasture, earth, is nibbled bare,
It shall fare someward to some unknown clime.
The greater part of time to gain the less
Men spend in toil and sleep, two kinds of death,
And momentarily their lives possess
In feeding, laughing, breeding; not in breath.
Each generation passes, living, dying,
And thinks itself somewhat—yea, so much worth,
That the successive ages magnifying
The individual life have seen far forth
To a mirage of immortality,
Imaged from life's lasting reality.
O foolish men who think yourselves so great,
Ye are but fires that burn a little bout,
And being used to mould some toy by fate,
Transmit your flames, then go for ever out.
Proud-blooded men, I'll teach you what ye are
I'll stop your spring-like health, and blast your flowers;
I'll set your petty happiness ajar;
Ye shall no more have any happy hours:
I will be fate, and ye shall be my jests,
Things merely to fulfil all my behests.
Ye shall be lashed to work, and worked to death
At labour neither beautiful nor good.
Useful, good, beautiful?—these words are breath,
And all is vanity. Hold firm my mood.
And Egypt that believes itself so wise,
Shall bear the cost and sorely agonise,
To rear avowedly what now it makes
Unwittingly, huge nothing.
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