The Poems of Emma Lazarus, Volume 1

AGAMEMNON'S TOMB.

     Uplift the ponderous, golden mask of death,
       And let the sun shine on him as it did
     How many thousand years agone!  Beneath
       This worm-defying, uncorrupted lid,
     Behold the young, heroic face, round-eyed,
     Of one who in his full-flowered manhood died;
       Of nobler frame than creatures of to-day,
     Swathed in fine linen cerecloths fold on fold,
     With carven weapons wrought of bronze and gold,
       Accoutred like a warrior for the fray.

     We gaze in awe at these huge-modeled limbs,
       Shrunk in death's narrow house, but hinting yet
     Their ancient majesty; these sightless rims
       Whose living eyes the eyes of Helen met;
     The speechless lips that ah! what tales might tell
     Of earth's morning-tide when gods did dwell
       Amidst a generous-fashioned, god-like race,
     Who dwarf our puny semblance, and who won
     The secret soul of Beauty for their own,
       While all our art but crudely apes their grace.

     We gather all the precious relics up,
       The golden buttons chased with wondrous craft,
     The sculptured trinkets and the crystal cup,
       The sheathed, bronze sword, the knife with brazen haft.
     Fain would we wrest with curious eyes from these
     Unnumbered long-forgotten histories,
       The deeds heroic of this mighty man,
     On whom once more the living daylight beams,
     To shame our littleness, to mock our dreams,
       And the abyss of centuries to span.

     Yet could we rouse him from his blind repose,
       How might we meet his searching questionings,
     Concerning all the follies, wrongs, and woes,
       Since his great day whom men call King of Kings,
     Victorious Agamemnon?  How might we
     Those large, clear eyes confront, which scornfully
       Would view us as a poor, degenerate race,
     Base-souled and mean-proportioned?  What reply
     Give to the beauty-loving Greek's heart-cry,
       Seeking his ancient gods in vacant space?

     What should he find within a world grown cold,
       Save doubt and trouble?  To his sunny creed
       A thousand gloomy, warring sects succeed.
     How of the Prince of Peace might he be told,
       When over half the world the war-cloud lowers?
       How would he mock these faltering hopes of ours,
     Who knows the secret now of death and fate!
       Humbly we gaze on the colossal frame,
       And mutely we accept the mortal shame,
     Of men degraded from a high estate.