Genius
Talk not of Rome!—before they lopt a bush
From the seven hills where Rome, earth's empress, stood,
These pyramids were old—their birth day is
Beyond tradition's reach, or history.
Traveller
Then let us haste toward those piles of wonder
That scorn to bend beneath this weight of years—
Lo! to my view, the aweful mansions rise
The pride of art, the sleeping place of death!
Are these the four prodigious monuments
That so astonish every generation—
Let us examine this, the first and greatest—
A secret horror chills my breast, dear Genius,
To touch these monuments that are so ancient,
The fearful property of ghosts and death!—
Yet of such mighty bulk that I presume
A race of giants were the architects.—
Since these proud fabricks to the heavens were rais'd
How many generations have decay'd,
How many monarchies to ruin pass'd!
How many empires had their rise and fall!
While these remain—and promise to remain
As long as yonder sun shall gild their summits,
Or moon or stars their wonted circles run.
Genius
The time will come
When these stupendous piles you deem immortal,
Worn out with age, shall moulder on their bases,
And down, down, low to endless ruin verging,
O'erwhelm'd by dust, be seen and known no more!—
Ages ago, in dark oblivion's lap
Had they been shrouded, but the atmosphere
In these parch'd climates, hostile to decay,
Is pregnant with no rain, that by its moisture
Might waste their bulk in such excess of time,
And prove them merely mortal.
'Twas on this plain the ancient Memphis stood,
Her walls encircled these tall pyramids—
But where is Pharoah's palace, where the domes
Of Egypt's haughty lords?—all, all are gone,
And like the phantom snows of a May morning
Left not a vestige to discover them!
Traveller
How shall I reach the vortex of this pile—
How shall I clamber up its shelving sides?
I scarce endure to glance toward the summit,
It seems among the clouds—When was't thou rais'd,
O work of more than mortal majesty—
Was this produc'd by persevering man,
Or did the gods erect this pyramid?
Genius
Nor gods, nor giants rais'd this pyramid—
It was the toil of mortals like yourself
That swell'd it to the skies—
See'st thou yon' little door? Through that they pass'd,
Who rais'd so high this aggregate of wonders!
What cannot tyrants do,
When they have subject nations at their will,
And the world's wealth to gratify ambition!
Millions of slaves beneath their labours fainted
Who here were doom'd to toil incessantly,
And years elaps'd while groaning myriads strove
To raise this mighty tomb—and but to hide
The worthless bones of an Egyptian king.—
O wretch, could not a humbler tomb have done,
Could nothing but a pyramid inter thee!