Before his golden galiot
Ran naked vine-wreathed Corybants;
And herds of swaying elephants
Knelt down to draw his chariot.
The traders brought him steatite
From Sidon, in their painted ships:
The meanest cup that touched his lips
Was fashioned from a chrysolite.
The traders brought him cedar-chests
Of rich apparel bound with cords:
His train was borne by Memphian lords:
Young kings were glad to be his guests.
Three hundred shaven priests did bow
To Ammon's altar, day and night;
Three hundred lamps did wave their light
Through Ammon's marble house, -- and now,
The scorpion and the adder with
Their young ones crawl across his Throne,
And ruined is the house, and prone
The great rose sandstone monolith.
The vulture and the grey hawk come
To build upon his shattered gate:
The satyr calls unto its mate
Across each fallen fluted drum.
And on the summit of the pile
The blue-faced ape of Nubia sits
And mocks him, and the fig-tree splits
The pillars of his peristyle.
His limbs are scattered here and there,
And hidden in the windy sand
Men meet his giant granite hand
Still clenched in impotent despair.
Behind his huge and trunkless thighs
The goat-herd with his goats has room
To shelter from the wild Simoom:
The jackels sleep upon his eyes.
And many a wandering caravan
Of swarthy Bedouins silken-shawled,
Crossing the desert, halts appalled
Before the head they dare not span.
O seek his fragments on the moor,
And wash them in the evening dew,
And from their pieces make anew
Thy mutilated paramour.
O seek them where they lie alone,
And from their broken pieces make
Thy bruised bedfellow, and wake
Wild passions in the senseless stone.
Crouch down between his ancient knees,
Charm his dull ear with curious songs,
He will forget his bitter wrongs,
He will forgive thine harlotries.
O charm his ear with languorous hymns,
He loved thy body, O be kind,
Pour spikenard on his neck, and wind
Soft rolls of linen round his limbs.
Wind round his head the gilded coins,
Pour odorous spikenard on his lips,
Spread fleeces on his sterile hips,
Weave purple for his barren loins.
Away to Egypt! have no fear,
Only one God has ever died,
Only one God has let his side
Be wounded by a soldier's spear.
But these, thy lovers, are not dead:
Still by the hundred-cubit gate
Dog-faced Anubis sits in state,
With lotus-lilies for thy head.
Still from his chair of lazuli
Huge Memnon strains his lidless eyes
Across the empty land, and cries
Each morning unto thee.
And Nilus with his broken horn
Lies in his black and oozy bed,
And till thy coming will not spread
His waters on the withering corn.
Your lovers are not dead, I know;
They will rise up, and hear your voice,
And clash their cymbals, and rejoice,
And run to kiss your mouth, -- and so
Set wings upon your argosies!
Set horses to your ebon car!
Back to your Nile!, or if you are
Grown sick of old divinities,
Follow some roving lion's spoor
Across the copper-coloured plain,
Reach out, and hale him by the mane,
And make him be your paramour!
Couch by his side upon the grass,
And set your white teeth in his throat,
And when you hear his dying note
Lash your long flanks of polished brass,
And take a tiger for your mate
Whose amber sides are striped with black,
And ride upon his gilded back
In triumph through the Theban gate,
And toy with him in amorous jests,
And when he turns, and snarls, and gnaws,
O smite him with your jasper paws,
And bruise him with your agate breasts!
Why are you tarrying? get hence,
I weary of your stony gaze,
And silent mood, and sullen ways,
And your somnolent magnificence.
What though your chamberers be hearsed
In porphyry sarcophagi,
Are Abana and Pharphar dry
That you come here to slake your thirst?
Get hence, you dreadful mystery,
Fantastic animal, get hence,
You wake in me each bestial sense,
You make me what I would not be.
Your horrible and heavy breath
Makes the light flicker in the lamp
And on my brows I feel the damp
And dreadful drippng dews of death.
Your eyes are like two tawny moons
That shiver in some stagnant lake
Your tongue is like a scarlet snake
That dances to fantastic tunes
With pulse of poisonous melodies,
And your black throat is like the hole
Left by some torch, or lighted coal,
On Saracenic tapestries.
Your horrid claws begin to close,
You bind me with an iron mesh,
You set your teeth against my flesh,
You tear my heart out like a rose.
You tear my heart out with your claws,
You drink my blood like crimson wine,
You set your icy lips to mine,
You mouth me in your blackened jaws.
