Classic Poem

The wind has died; to-day we sail no more
O'er river reaches widening bright or wan;
Languid we lie beside the reedy shore,
And night draws darkly on.

In no wise strange or pagan would it seem
To Pasht or Isis now to bend the knee,
There broods about us, in day's paling beam,
Such vast antiquity.

Yonder a sacred ibis, grave as faith,
Stands like a statue by the river brink;
And mark! is that a Libyan lion's wraith
Come to the stream to drink?

A wandering minstrel pipes a plaintive strain,
Then slowly, sadly lets the music swoon;
While, like a lovely lotus, once again
Flowers the Egyptian moon.

And so to rest, and visions weirdly clear
Of priests, of kings, of gods with hoof and horn,
To rouse at last from dreams wherein we hear
Great Memnon greet the morn!