ALI.
153
"Build thee thy tomb. Of mountain rockFashion its members, that they mockTime's thrusts, and overlay its archIn gold to stay an army's march,And carve the crypt out for thy bones,And lay the walks in pleasant stones,And wrap round thy magnificenceAloes and myrrh and frankincense,And light thy lamp. At last the sodSome laborer turns, himself a clod,Within its tangled roots and mouldAll that is left of thee shall hold.
"Where are the kings long dead? Their tombsAre overgrown with bitter blooms.There is no king, there is no slave,Nor work, nor wisdom, in the grave.The lice that plagued th' Egyptian day,Man were more pitiable than they,If one thing passed not these vain things,—The mercy of the King of kings."And the Jew sang, "O king! thus saithThe Lord of life, the Lord of death."
