To greet the first faint flushes of the morn,—
The obelisks that rose in lofty grandeur
From their stony beds—the sphynxes gaunt and grim,
With unsolved riddles on their lips—and all
The bright creation’s painters art and sculptors
Skill had gathered in those regal halls, where mirth
And dance, and revelry, and song had chased
With careless feet the bright and fleeting hours.
He was leaving all; but no regrets came
Like a shadow o’er his mind, for he had felt