We know, we know that all must die!
Where is our knowledge then,--
The plotting head, the beaming eye,
The boasts of mortal men?

In earth's oblivion, dull and deep,
We sleep our unawakened sleep;

Like forms that float in twilight's shade,
And ere the day are gone,—
When from his misty joyless glade

Stern Hades glideth on,

Wrapt in his robe of quiet gloom,

To call us to the silent tomb.

He will not loose in that dread hour
The Monarch's jewelled brow,
Won by the wealth, the pomp of power,
In which he joyeth now;

Poor mortal! while the sun of spring
Smiles on his warm imagining,-

Unhappy!-he hath thoughts of pride,

And aspirations vain,

And marches with a godlike stride,
Chilling the courtier train

With the cold glance of royal ire,

More dreaded than the lightning fire.

σχέτλιος· φθίνει τάδε πάντα, νὺξ γαρ εἷλεν· ὦ σοφαὶ φρένες, ὦ γελοῖαι φροντίδες, πόνοι τε· τυραννίκας ἔν

τοσθε τιάρας

ἱσδάνει, πικρόν τι γελῶν, ὁ λυγρὸς νερτέρων ἄναξ, Θάνατος βραχεῖαν δ' ἡδονὰν χαριζόμενος, κακοῖς γέ

γαθε δόλοισιν·

αἶψα δ' ὥρμασεν, κρυφίῳ τε κέντρῳ ἀσθενὲς τεῖχος τόδε χρυσοφεγγὲς φεῦ διάῤῥηξεν· τί δὲ τίς, τί δ ̓ οὔτις ;

νὺξ, ὀλοὴ νὺξ

εἶχε τὸν πρὶν λαμπρότατον, τὸν ἀρχᾶς ἀγλαὸν ἔχοντα χάριν, τὸν αἰὲν

ἠδ ̓ ἅπαξ εὐδαίμονα, τὸν πανάρχων

ποιμένα λαῶν.

And what are these? in cold and cloud

The motley pageant flies!

Weep for the weakness of the proud,

The follies of the wise!

Ever within the golden ring

That rounds the temples of a king,

Death, Lord of all beneath the sky,
Holdeth his stubborn court;
And, as he gives to Royalty

Its momentary sport,

Points his wan finger all the while With shaking head, and bitter smile;

And at the last the Phantom thin
Leaps up within the hold;
And, with a little hidden pin,

Bores through his wall of gold.
What are we in our fate and fall ?-
Night, Night, the jailer of us all,

Hath bound in her funereal chain
The beautiful, the brave,
The ignorant of human pain,

The lord of land and wave,
The shepherd of his people's rest,
The ever and the wholly blest.

εὐθὺ δ' ἐν δόμοισιν ὄρωρε πικρον οὐλιοῦ γόου νέφος· ἐν δὲ δουπεῖ

(ὡς μάταν) κτύπημα χερῶν· πίτνει δ' ἀμύγματα χαίτας

ἱμέρῳ. λευκὸν δέ δέμας θανόντος σᾶμα λευκὸν ἐνδέχεται, τυράννων ὀστέων ἀγανὸν ἕδος, νεκρῶν πε

λώριον ἕρκος.

ταῦτα μὲν νεκρῶν γέρας ἔστ'. ἐγώ δὲ εἰσορῶν δῶ μαρμάρεον, παλαιῶν

μνάμαθ ̓ ἡρώων, μύχατ' ἐν σκοτεινᾷ

κείμενα νυκτί,

Ψάμμι, σᾶς ἀρχᾶς ἔτι σῶν τε τιμῶν μνάσομαι· κλυταῖς ἐπέων ἀοιδαῖς Ψάμμι, σαν ψυχὰν ἐνὶ νηνέμοις προσ

φθέγξομαι ὄρφναις.

And straight among the courtier bands

The hired lamentings rise;

And there is striking of fair hands,

And weeping of bright eyes;

And the long locks of women fall

In sorrow round that

gorgeous Hall.

And last, upon some solemn day,
The tomb of all his race

Hath opened for his shivering clay
The dismal dwelling-place,

The dim abyss of sculptured stones,
The prison-house of royal bones.

These are the honors of the dead!
But, as I wander by,

And

gaze upon yon marble bed
With lost and loitering eye,
Till back upon my awe-struck soul
A thousand ages seem to roll,

I muse on thee, whom this recess
Hides in its pathless gloom,
Thy glory and thy nothingness,

Thine empire and thy tomb;

And call thee, Psammis, back to light, Back from the veil of Death and Night. VOL. II.-14