The Dust Dethroned

Sargon is dust, Semiramis a clod! In crypts profaned the moon at midnight peers; The owl upon the Sphinx hoots in her ears, And scant and sear the desert grasses nod Where once the armies of Assyria trod, With younger sunlight splendid on the spears; The lichens cling the closer with the years, And seal the eyelids of the weary god. Where high the tombs of royal Egypt heave, The vulture shadows with arrested wings The indecipherable boast of kings, As Arab children hear their mother’s cry And leave in mockery their toy—they leave The skull of Pharaoh staring at the sky.