Fringilla. Richard Doddridge Blackmore

Every bulrush, parched and welted,

           Lifts his long joints yellow-belted;

           Every lotus, faint and sick,

           Hangs her fragrant tongue to lick.

           Countless creatures, lone unthought of,

             Swarm from every hole and nook;

           What is man, that he make nought of

             Other entries in God's book?

           Scorpions, rats, and lizards flabby,

           Centipedes, and hydras scabby,

           Asp, and slug, and toad, whose gem

           Outlasts human diadem.

VIII

           Therefore hath the priest-procession

             Causeway clean of sandal-wood;

           That no foul thing make transgression

             On the votive maiden's blood.

           Pure of blood and soul, she standeth

           Where the marble gauge demandeth,

           Marble pillar, with black style,

           Record of the rising Nile,

           White-robed priests around her kneeling,

             Ibis-banner floating high,

           Conchs, and drums, and sistrals pealing,

             And Sesostris standing nigh.

IX

           He, whose kingdom-city stretches

           Further than our eyesight fetches;

           Every street it wanders down

           Larger than a regal town;

           Built, when each man was a giant,

             When the rocks were mason's stones,

           When the oaks were osiers pliant,

             And the mountains scarcely thrones;

           City, whose Titanic portals

           Scorn the puny modern mortals,

           In thy desert winding-sheet,

           Sacred from our insect feet.

X

           Thebes No-Amon, hundred-gated,

             Every gate could then unfold

           Cavalry ten thousand, plated,

             Man and horse, in solid gold.

           Glancing back through serried ranges,

           Vivid as his own phalanges,

           Every captain might espy

           Equal host in sculpture vie;

           Down Piromid vista gazing,

             Ten miles back from every gate,

           He can see that temple blazing,

             Which the world shall never mate.

XI

           But the Nile-flood, when it swelleth,

           Recks not man, nor where he dwelleth;

           And—e'en while Sesostris reigns—

           Scarce five cubits man attains.

           Lo, the darkening river quaileth,

             Like a swamp by giant trod,

           And the broad commotion waileth,

             Stricken with the hand of God I

           When the rushing deluge raging

           Flung its flanks, and shook the staging,

           Priesthood, cowering from the brim,

           Chanted thus its faltering hymn.

XII

           "Ocean sire, the earth enclasping,

             Like a babe upon thy knee,

           In thy cosmic cycle grasping

             All that hath been, or shall be;

           "Thou, that art around and over

           All we labour to discover;

           Thou, to whom our world no more

           Than a shell is on thy shore;

           "God, that wast Supreme, or ever

             Orus, or Osiris, saw;

           God, with whom is no endeavour,

             But thy will eternal law:

XIII

           "We, who keep thy feasts and fastings,

           We, who live on thy off-castings,

           Here in low obeisance crave

           Rich abundance of thy wave.

           "Seven years now, for some transgression,

             Some neglect, or outrage vile,

           Vainly hath our poor procession

             Offered life, and soul to Nile.

           "Seven years now of promise fickle,

           Niggard ooze, and paltry trickle,

           Freshet sprinkling scanty dole,

           Where the roaring flood should roll.

XIV

           "Therefore are thy children dwindled,

             Therefore is thine altar bare;

           Wheat, and rye, and millet spindled,

             And the fruits of earth despair.

           "Men with haggard bellies languish,

           Bridal beds are strewn with anguish,

           Mothers sell their babes for bread,

           Half the holy kine are dead.

           "Is thy wrath at last relaxing?

             Art thou merciful, once more?

           Yea, behold the torrent waxing!

             Yea, behold the flooded shore!

XV

           "Nile, that now with life-blood tidest,

           And in gorgeous cold subsidest,

           Richer than our victor tread

           Stirred in far Hydaspes' bed;

           "When thy swelling crest o'er-waveth

           Yonder twenty cubit mark,

           And thy tongue of white foam laveth

           Borders of the desert dark,