LAURENCE BINYON
When Shalmancbcr pitch 'd his tent By Tigris, and his flag unfurl'd, And forth his summons proudly sent Into the new unconquer'd world;
Or when with spears Cambyses rode Through Memphis and her bending slaves, Or first the Tyrian gazed abroad Upon the bright vast outer waves,
When sages, star-instructed men, To the young glory of Babylon Foreknew no ending, even then Innumerable years had flown
Since first the chisel in her hand Necessity, the sculptor, took, And in her spacious meaning plann'd These forms, and that eternal look;
These foicheads, moulded fiom afar, These soft, unfathomable eyes, Gazing from darkness, like a star; These lips, whose grief is to be wise.
As from the mountain marble rude The growing statue rises fair, She from immortal patience hew'd The limbs of ever-young despair.
There is no bliss so new and dear, It hath not them far-off allured. All things that we have yet to fear They have already long endured.
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