Classic Poem

O land of temples, land of tombs!
O tawny land, O lion dead!
O silent land of silent looms;
Of kingly garments torn to shred!
O land of storied wonder still, as when
Fair Joseph stood the chiefest of all men!
. . . . . . .

The Christ in Egypt! Egypt and
Her mystic star-built Pyramids!
Her shoreless, tiger seas of sand!
Her Sphynx with fixed and weary lids!
Her red and rolling Nile of yellow sheaves
Where Moses cradled 'mid his lily leaves.

Her lorn, dread temples of the dead
Had waited, as mute milestones wait
By some untraversed way unread,
Until the King, or soon or late,
Should come that tomb-built way and silent pass
To read their signs above the sandsown grass.

Behold! Amid this majesty
Of ruin, at the dust-heaped tomb
Of vanity came Christ to see
Earth's emptiness, the dark death room
Of haughtiness, of kingly pomp, of greed,
Of gods of gold or stone, or storied creed.

And this His first abiding-place!
And these dread scenes His childhood's toys!
What wonder at that thoughtful face?
That boy face never yet a boy's?
What wonder that the elders marvelled when
A boy spake in the Temple unto men?