LETTER III.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

Memphis.

There is some star—or may it be
That moon we saw so near last night—
Which comes athwart my destiny
For ever with misleading light.
If for a moment pure and wise
And calm I feel there quick doth fall
A spark from some disturbing eyes,
That thro' my heart, soul, being flies,
And makes a wildfire of it all.
I've seen—oh, Cleon, that this earth
Should e'er have given such beauty birth!—
That man—but, hold—hear all that past
Since yester-night from first to last.

The rising of the Moon, calm, slow,
And beautiful, as if she came
Fresh from the Elysian bowers below,
Was with a loud and sweet acclaim
Welcomed from every breezy height,
Where crowds stood waiting for her light.
And well might they who viewed the scene
Then lit up all around them, say
That never yet had Nature been
Caught sleeping in a lovelier ray
Or rivalled her own noontide face
With purer show of moonlight grace.

Memphis—still grand, tho' not the same
Unrivalled Memphis that could seize
From ancient Thebes the crown of Fame,
And wear it bright thro' centuries—
Now, in the moonshine, that came down
Like a last smile upon that crown.
Memphis, still grand among her lakes,
Her pyramids and shrines of fire,
Rose like a vision that half breaks
On one who dreaming still awakes
To music from some midnight choir:
While to the west—where gradual sinks
In the red sands from Libya rolled.
Some mighty column or fair sphynx,
That stood in kingly courts of old—
It seemed as, mid the pomps that shone
Thus gayly round him Time looked on,
Waiting till all now bright and blest,
Should sink beneath him like the rest.