Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/172

158 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 hronze 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 the 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,