Home Lyrics: A Book of Poems Part 12

CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE.

(_Erected on the Thames Embankment, 1878_).

Thou reverend relic from a far-off clime, Of ancient days, triumphant over Time.

Thou ocean traveller, brought with peril o'er, To rise again on London's busy sh.o.r.e.

Superb exponent of Egyptian art, What wondrous secrets load thy granite heart Since thou wert fashioned from the ribs of earth To show the great sun's golden glory forth!

Thou with six n.o.ble compeers hast surveyed The birth and death of empires undismayed.

Some of them saw at On the guiding light Shed o'er the Holy Family in their flight.

The oldest still enn.o.bles Goshen's brow, Almost the sole surviving relic now Of her foundation, and upon whose sod, When years had rolled their courses, Jesus trod.

And one in Turkey, yet one more in Rome, Captives and aliens from their childhood's home, Tower in lone majesty, recording still The grandest era of Egyptian skill.

A fifth in Alexandria calmly rears Its stately form, and o'er it kindly peers A n.o.ble landmark, like an angel guide To wanderers o'er Egypt's sand plains wide.

Ask of the ages where the sixth has gone, For naught of that stone mountain now is known.

Thus perish all things, save the spirit free, Inheritor of immortality!

Past ages fondly raised to Ra and Tum (Whose morn and evening glory robed the sun), These sacred fanes, to grace the sun shrine high, Full in the golden splendour of the sky.

Where now is Heliopolis? ah, where Her sun-shrine, raised in cla.s.sic beauty rare?

Crumbled, and lost in rainless Egypt's dust, Save what these columns guard in sacred trust.

And shall we fondly consecrate and raise Vast monuments to sing of mortal praise, And then presume to criticise and scorn Fanes raised the sun-G.o.d's temple to adorn?

Ah no, but let us rather consecrate Anew this worship-sign of ancient date, Than join in scoff by sneering cynic thrown On faith and on religion not his own.

Upon the generous donor's aged brow Let Britain place her graceful chaplet now, Since unto him is due that she doth hold This precious relic of the faith of old.

And let us not forget what thanks are due To skilful Dixon and his gallant crew, And as is just, be honour also paid.

To useful Dmetri for his timely aid.

Then plant the precious fane on Britain's sh.o.r.e.

In solemn tribute of the faith of yore, That coming ages may revere the sod That shrines this tribute to the living G.o.d.

A VOICE FROM ST. GEORGE'S HALL, LIVERPOOL.

Inhabitants of Liverpool, List to the urgent call, Which summons you in crowds to-day, Within St. George's Hall.

There earnest Women are convened, In purpose strong to seek, Through your kind help and influence, To aid the Faint and Weak.

The Convalescent Hospital Stands burdened with a debt, Which we resolve (if you permit) Shall now be promptly met.

To this intent, a Grand Bazaar Is held by us to-day; And fifteen hundred pounds the sum We fondly hope to pay.

The cause is good; then quickly prove Your grat.i.tude for health, By giving with a willing heart Of your abundant wealth.

Or if not quite disposed to give, Then freely buy, I pray, Of the rich stores of wondrous art Displayed for you to-day.

Work marvellously wrought, and rare As beautiful you'll find; With good plain, homely garments, too, Of varied form and kind.

And lovely flowers, in sweet perfume, Breathing delight and love; Discoursing, in mute eloquence, Of fadeless ones above.

Groups, too, of artificial flowers, To serve when others die; Like photos of dear absent friends, Delighting heart and eye.

Presents there are for Boys and Girls, And darling Pets at home, And souvenir for Grandmamma, If too infirm to come.

And, mingling with the festive scene, Is music's witching voice, Swelling, in harmony divine, Man's spirit to rejoice.

Beneath the master hand of "Best"

The organ springs to life, Like some roused monster in his lair, Goaded to deadly strife.

Attuned to Angel sweetness, then, And tremblings of delight, It fills the dreamy marble Hall With visions pure and bright.

Then merchant Princes, Tradesmen, too, Dry business leave awhile; And with your dear ones by your side, With us an hour beguile.

TO THE MUSEUM COMMITTEE.

O ye in power, thus placed to minister To every pressing local, social claim, Of those who gave you this authority, Trusting you to act wisely in their name, See that the precious heirloom of our race, For which our fathers suffered, toiled and bled, Our glorious Const.i.tution, Britain's pride, Be to the people's rights in justice wed.

Withhold not from them what in trust ye guard, For calm enjoyment on the day of rest, By opening parks, museums, libraries, That their closed treasures be enjoyed with zest.

Why should our city's priceless treasures not Be freely open on the day of rest, That the inspiring thoughts of n.o.ble minds Be to the people thus divinely blest?

And if the ma.s.ses do not agitate, For free admission to these works of art, This fact adds reason more why cultured men, Should lead them in these joys to share a part.

This day was made for man, not he for it, And should he to him of all days the best, For moral, physical and mental life, Since calm exertion may be actual rest.

Surely the study of the Father's laws, And survey of His wondrous works and power, Seen through all nature's grand and wondrous realm, Is fit enployment for a Sunday hour; Think ye the public house a fitter place, In which to spend that blessed afternoon?

I fear that many of you must do so, Or you would grant what has been claimed right soon.