Classic Poem

And the crowd grows, increasing more and more:
The dead come forth from hypogeum's night,
And from cartouche the sacred hawks in flight
Mid the great host in freedom proudly soar.

Beasts, peoples, kings, they go. Fierce foreheads o'er,
The gold uraeus curls with sparkling light,
But thick bitumen seals their thin lips tight.
At head, the Gods: Hor, Knoum, Ptah, Neith, Hathor;

Next, those whom Ibis-headed Thoth controls,
In shenti robed and crowned with pshent all decked
With lotus blue. The pomp triumphant rolls

Amid the dreadful gloom of temples wrecked,
While the cold pavements wrapped in moonlit air
Show giant shadows strangely lengthened there.