Potiphar's Wife and Other Poems/The Egyptian Princess
THE EGYPTIAN PRINCESS.
There was fear and desolation over Egypt's swarthy land
From the holy city of the Sun to hot Syëne's sand:
The sistrum and the cymbal slept, the dancing women beat
No measure to the pipe and drum, with silver-slippered feet:
For the Daughter of the King must die, the dark magicians said
Before once more the Moon-God Khuns should lift his hornèd head.
And, all those days, the temple-smoke loaded the heavy air
With prayers to Set the Terrible, who heareth not, to hear;
Those days the painted flags were down, the festal lamps untrimmed,
Mute at their stones the millers ground, silent the Nile boats skimmed:
And, through the land, lip passed to lip sad word of what would be,
From Nubia's golden mountains to the gateways of the Sea.
There, in the Palace Hall, where once her laugh had loudest been,
Where, but last Feast Day she had worn the wreath of Beauty's Queen,
She lay a lost but lovely thing, the wreath was on her brow:
Alas! the lotus could not match its chilly pallor now!
And ever as the orb of Day sank lower in the sky,
Her breath came fainter, and the life seemed fading from her eye.
Mute o'er the dying maiden's form King Mycerinus bends;—
Not Pharaoh's might from this dread foe proud Egypt's hope defends!
Piteously moans he: "In this world, so dark without thy smile!
Hast thou one care thy Father's love, thy King's pledge may beguile?
Hast thou a last light wish?—'Tis thine, by all the Gods on high!
If Egypt's blood can win it thee, or Egypt's treasure buy!"
How eagerly they wait her words! Upon the pictured wall
In long gold lines the dying lights between the columns fall;
Was it strange that tears were glistening where tears should never be,
When Death had touched with fatal kiss the lips of such as she?
Was it strange that warriors should raise a very woman's cry
For help and hope to Athor's ears when such as she must die?
Small boot of bearded leeches here! not all Arabia's store
Of precious balms can purchase her one noon of sunshine more!
Hush! hush! she speaks!—the pale, drawn lips murmur a parting speech!
Ah, silence! let no syllable be lost! so whispers each.
That gray crow on the Palace wall which croaks and will not rest,
An archer fits his arrow and splits the evil breast!
"Father! Great Father!—it is hard,—to die so very young!
Summer was coming, and I looked to see the palm-buds sprung!
Must it be always dark like this?—I cannot see thy face!
I am dying! Hold me, Pharaoh! in thy kind and strong embrace!
List! let them sometimes bear me where the golden sunbeams lie,
Farewell! Farewell! I know thou wilt! 'Tis easy now to die!"
And ever when the Star of Kneph has brought the summer round,
And the Nile rises fast and full along the thirsty ground,
They bear her from her rock-hewn tomb to where the Sun's broad light
May linger on the close-bound eyes were once so glad and bright;
And strew palm-clusters on her breast while gray-haired singers tell
Of the high Egyptian Lady, who loved the Sun so well.