Classic Poem

With ruder pomp, in more barbaric taste,
His burial rites the Abyssinian grac'd;
Like the Egyptian, striving 'gainst the worm,
With costly balms preserved the mortal form;
But not with numerous swathings wrapt the dead,
His fancy counsell'd to unveil instead;
Most heedless, in his vanity, of shame,
Transparent amber clothed the naked frame;
Thus, to all eyes reveal'd, his farther rite,
Raised on high pillars, placed the corse in sight;
Thus, mocking Life with Death, and Time with Fate,
He left the loved one in his hideous state,
The sun still daily shining, but in vain,
On eyes that never smile on sun again!

In better taste, with tribute more refin'd,
The Etrurian chief his sepulchre designed;
That wondrous race, of whom the little shown,
Reveals such promise in the vast unknown;
Kin to the Egyptian, father to the Greek—
If true the legend and conjecture speak—
In arts and arms that gloriously achiev'd,
And still survive the worship they believed;
That left to Rome their gods, without their faith,
And live in marble though they sleep in death;
A night of twenty centuries, like a spell,
Oppressing Genius that achieved so well,
Denying History, curious still to pierce
The purple pall that hangs about her hearse,
And, hush'd on every theme that might have taught,
Still speaking vaguely, wondrously, to Thought!

How, as with pick and axe, exploring deep
In vaults that shelter well their ancient sleep,
We break through caves of marble that reveal
What pride hath wrought, and Time would still conceal—
How do we start, as on our vision rise,
Perfect as when their children closed their eyes,
Stately in helm and armour, robes and gold,
Their Lucumones as they sway'd of old!—
Princes and chiefs, whose deeds of answering fame,
Thrill'd through their world, yet have for ours no name!
The weight of earth, for near three thousand years,
Press'd on the marble vault that hides their biers,
Preserving well from touch, and rude decay,
The haughty forms of manhood and of sway.

There, he reclines, as when he sought the strife,
Clad in bright armour, looking as in life,
The proud Lucumo!—They have scarcely gone,—
'Twould seem—who laid and seal'd him up in stone!
What awe pervades the soul as thus we gaze,
On this life-seeming state of ancient days;
No cunning effigy, the work of art,
Wrought in the marble, wanting sense and heart,
But the once powerful chieftain as he shone,
By nations honor'd and to thousands known;—
Himself, at length, his limbs composed, his breast
Expanding, as with happiest slumbers bless'd.
Even as we gaze, life seems to stir beneath,
The bosom heaves as with returning breath;
We look to see him rise,—we pause to hear
His trumpet peal of battle from the bier!
But death is in the movement;—'tis the light
That heaves the frame and stirs him to the sight;
Smote by the insidious air, the unwelcome day,
The crumbling corse sinks sudden to decay;
Time, mock'd so long, upon his subject darts,
The clay dissolves, the linkéd armour parts;—
The sceptre-grasping hand, the helméd brow,
And the mail'd breast that perfect seemed but now,
Subside to dust, and mock the fond surprize,
That hail'd the vision late with awe-struck eyes.

We glide below: with curious search we gaze
On these proud mansions of ancestral days;
Here wealth and care have vainly striven to prove
How proud their homage and how fond their love;
What toils they used, what precious unguents brought,
With what sad skill the funeral garments wrought;
What sacrifice of gold and pomp was made,
For the great chief whose relics here they laid!
Art spared no service! On the walls behold,
How fresh the colours twenty centuries old;
How rich the painting—with what free design,
Warm in each tint and bold in every line;
A wondrous story, which reveals a faith
That sees the soul escaped, surviving death;
Shows the group'd forms, in long procession led,
Surrounding fond, or following slow, the dead.—
There, stately still, the enfranchised ghost survey,
Led, by the rival Genii, into day—
The day that lets in judgment on the past,
Bright with great joys, or dread with clouds o'ercast,
There the good Angel, seeking still to save,
Receives and guides the freed one from the grave;
Beckons with smiling hope that soothes the fear,
And shows his “Esar” merciful and near.
Not so the Evil Genii, who withstand
The gentle guidance of his guardian hand;
They bar the way to mercy, and, with thirst
Of eager malice, hoping still the worst,
Declare, of evil deeds, the dark account,
That should deny the ambitious soul to mount.
The painter leaves in doubt the fearful strife,
Whose issue broods with doom or glorious life,
But, of his aim and hope enough are shown,
To prove his promise not unlike our own,
Show that his faith still sought an upward goal,
And challenged wings for the immortal soul!