THE COLLECTED POEMS OF HENRIK IBSEN Translated by John ...

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are like bits of broken friezes,
and, like tattered knightly pennants,
kaftans flap their ragged remnants.
Now imagine that whole setting
shimmers in these hot, still climes,
grows and swells, till awe-begetting,
it expands a thousand times; —
then conceive this tomb-world here
an old caravan that died
in mid-journey, petrified, —
and you’ve Egypt’s long career.
Yes, it’s true. A great procession
set forth one bright dawn of yore;
led by priests, in their possession
hieroglyphic books of lore;
god-kings, king-gods rode the billowed
waste where time seems never-ending; —
Isis and Osiris pillowed
on high saddles, condescending,
glorious but in silence wending.
Horus, Hathor, Thme and Phtah,
Ammon Re and Ammon Ra
casting radiance resplendent
stalk amid the throng attendant;
Apis golden-browed is guided
where the waters gently glided
by a train of slaves in legion,
and wherever camp was made,
sphinxes, pylons mark the region.
Obelisks and stones memorial
whisper of, in script pictorial,
death and victory-parade;
temple colonnades unnumbered
line the route this pageant lumbered;
pyramids in strict formation
mark its final camp’s location.
Lo, then from the North a gust,
soon a gale, the desert battered,
lashed the caravan to dust; —
priests were toppled, kings were shattered,
all the gods declined and fell;
Pharaoh and his house as well
lay forgotten, buried, scattered.
Where the throng once flocked as bidden,
now a lifeless, silent crowd; —
for a thousand long years hidden,
deep-entombed, all light forbidden,
like a corpse in mummy-shroud,