The Pharaoh

They may not wake thy long-embalmed sleep, Or stir thee, Pharaoh, from thy deep repose; Thine are the secrets still that thou did'st keep, While through three thousand summers bloomed the rose.

They may not wrest a single sign from thee, Who art so rich in old forgotten lore. What are thy gems? Thou art the mystery That they will carry through the broken door.

Who shall say what thy love was—or thy hate? Thy lips are sealed far closer than thy tomb; Thou art inscrutable—a King in state— With golden dust upon thee like a bloom.

They marvel at thy treasures; pearls banked high; Jasper and ebony; ivory turned to lace; But still to-day the caravans go by, Bearing such precious things from place to place.

Thy glittering chariots that were locked away;— The alabaster jars the potters made; The painted gods to whom you used to pray; When these are touched,—what man will be afraid?

But when they cross the threshold of that place Where silence wove its web year after year, And drew its curtain o'er thy dreaming face,— They may move slowly, shod perchance with fear.