Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/245

Or sing of Isis' priests the vesper-chime;
Or doth thy memory fail beneath the weight of time?

    How little didst thou dream, in youth, to be
        So great a traveller in thy hoary years,
    And here, in lilied France, to take thy stand,
        The silvery fountains playing round thine ears,
And groves and gardens stretching'neath thy feet,
Where sheds the lingering sun his parting lustres sweet.

    Yet beautiful thou art in majesty,
        As ancient oracle, from Delphic shrine,
    Which by the Ocean cast on stranger-shore,
        Claims worship for its mysteries divine;
And Egypt hath been prodigally kind,
Such noble gift to send, to keep her love in mind.

    The earth whereon thou standest hath been red
        And saturate with blood, and at the rush
    Of those who came to die, hath quaked with dread,
        As though its very depths did shrink and blush,
Like Eden's soil, when first the purple tide
It drank with shuddering lip, and to its Maker cried.

    Be as a guardian to this new-found home,
        That fondly wooed thee o'er the billows blue,
    For't were a pity sure, to come so far,
        And know so much, and yet no good to do:—