THE PYRAMIDS OF EGYPT.

TRANSLATION OF A GREEK ODE RECITED AT THE

CAMBRIDGE COMMENCEMENT, A. D. 1822.

YE marvels of this ancient land,
Ye dwellings of the dead,

Where crowned brow and sceptred hand
Sleep in their dreamless bed,

Lone monuments of other days

Who lift to Heaven your ceaseless gaze,

Speak, for within your murky stone

Philosophy may hear

An echo of a hallowed tone,

Telling to mortal ear

Lessons of wisdom deep and stern,

Lessons which pride is slow to learn ;

Speak how the glory and the power,

The diadems of kings,

Are but the visions of an hour,

All unenduring things;

And how that Death hath made for all

A chamber in his silent Hall.

ἴσμεν ὡς βροτοῖσι θανεῖν πέπρωται. πᾶ τέχνα, πᾶ δ' ἱμερόεν βέβακε

κάλλος ἀνθρώπων; τὸν ἀτέρμον ̓ ὕπνον

ενδομες ἐν γῇ

δυστυχεῖς, ἐφαμέριοι, πτερωτῶν φάσμ ̓ ὀνειράτων, ὁπόταν σκιαῖσιν ἀθλίαις ἔλθῃ κεκαλυμμένος δυσ

έκφνγος Αΐδας.

οὐδὲ γὰρ σεμνὴν κεφαλὴν ἄνακτος χρήμασιν πω πειθόμενος μεθῆκε

Ταρτάρου κευθμών· ὁ δ ̓ ἐν ἀδοναῖς νε

άνιδος ώρας

δύσποτμος μέγα φρονέει, τρέφει τε ἐλπίδων φαῦλον θράσος, ἠδὲ ποσσίν

μακρὰ βαίνει, κυάνεον τε θείοις

ὄμμασι λεύσσει,

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,

Wrapped 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. Vol. II-20

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

τοσθε τιάρας

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

γαθε δόλοισιν

αἶψα δ' ώρμασεν, κρυφίῳ τε κέντρῳ ἀσθενὲς τεῖχος τόδε χρυσοφεγγες φεῦ διάρρηξεν· τί δὲ τίς, τί δ ̓ οὔτις;

νύξ, ὀλοὴ νύξ

εἷλε τὸν πρὶν λαμπρότατον, τὸν ἀρχῆς ἀγλαὸν ἔχοντα χάριν, τὸν αἰὲν

ἠδ ̓ ἅπαξ εὐδαίμονα, τὸν πανάρχων

ποιμένα λαών.

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.