Poems by William Cullen Bryant
page 13 of 294 (04%)
page 13 of 294 (04%)
|
Moans with the crimson surges that entomb
Cities and bannered armies; forms that wear The kingly circlet rise, amid the gloom, O'er the dark wave, and straight are swallowed in its womb. XIII. Those ages have no memory--but they left A record in the desert--columns strown On the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft, Heaped like a host in battle overthrown; Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone Were hewn into a city; streets that spread In the dark earth, where never breath has blown Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread The long and perilous ways--the Cities of the Dead: XIV. And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled-- They perished--but the eternal tombs remain-- And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane;-- Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustain The everlasting arches, dark and wide, Like the night-heaven, when clouds are black with rain. But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied, All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride. |
|