In Egypt, where the lotus sips the waters Of ever-fruitful Nile, and the huge Sphinx In awful silence, - mystic converse with The stars, - doth see the pale moon hang her crescent on The pyramid's sharp peak, - e'en there, well in The straits of Time's perspective, Went out, by Caesarean gusts from Rome, The low-burned candle of the Ptolemies:
Went out without a flicker in full glare Of noon-day glory.When her flame lacked oil Too proud was Egypt's queen to be The snuff of Roman spirits; so she said, "Good-night," and closed the book of life half read And little understood; perchance misread The greater part, - yet, who shall say? Are we An ermined bench to call her culprit failings up And make them plead for mercy? Or can we, Upon whom soon shall fall the awful shadow of The Judgment Seat, stand in her light and throw Ourselves that shadow? Rather let fall upon Her memory the softening gauze of Time, As mantle of a charity which else We might not serve.She was a woman, And as a woman loved! What though the fierce Simoom blew ever hot within the sail Of her desire? What if it shifted with Direction of her breath? Or if the rudder of Her will did lean as many ways as trampled straws, And own as little worth? She was a woman still, And queen.They do best understand themselves Who trust themselves the least; as they are wisest Who, for their safety, thank more the open sea Than pilot will.Oh, Egypt's self-born Isis!
Ought we to fasten in thy memory the fangs Of unalloyed distrust? We know how little Better is History's page than leaf whereat the ink Is thrown.Nor yet should we forget how much The nearer thou than we didst come to The rough-hewn corner-stone of Time.We know Thy practised love enfolded Antony;And that around the heart of Hercules'
Descendant, threading through and through, Like the red rivers of its life, in tangled mesh No circumstance could e'er unravel, thou Didst coil, - the dreamy, dazzling "Serpent of The Nile!" Thy sins stick jagged out From history's page, and bleeding tear Fair Judgment from thy merits.We perchance Do wrong thee, Isis; for that coward, History, Who binds in death his object's jaw and then Besmuts her name, hath crossed his focus in Another age, and paled his spreading figment from Our sight.Thou art so far back toward The primal autocrat whose wish, hyena-like, Was his religion, that, appearing as thou dost On an horizon new flushed in the first Uncertain ray of Altruism, thou seem'st More ghost than human.Yet thou lovest, loving ghost, And thy fierce parent flame thyself snuffed out Scarce later than the dark'ning of the fire Thou gav'st to be eternal vestal of Thine Antony's spirit.Thou didst love and die Of love; let, therefore, no light tongue, brazen In censure, say that nothing in thy life Became thee like the leaving it.The cloth From which humanity is cut is woven of The warp and woof of circumstance, and all Are much alike.We spring from out the mantle, Earth, And hide at last beneath it; in the interim Our acts are less of us than it.We are No judge, then, of thy sins, thou ending link Of Ptolemy's chain.Forsooth, we are too much O'erfilled with wondering how like to thee We all had been, inclipt and dressed in thine Own age and circumstance.
The exercises of the evening concluded with the reading of the familiar poem, beginning:
"I am dying, Egypt, dying;
Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast."
It was about noon the next day when Maitland called upon me."See here, Doc," he began at once, "do you believe in coincidences?" Iinformed him that his question was not altogether easy to understand.
"Wait a moment," he said, "while I explain.For at least two years prior to my recent return from California the name 'Cleopatra' has not entered my mind.You were the first to mention it to me, and from you I learned that Miss Darrow was to have charge of the 'Antony and Cleopatra' night.That is all natural enough.But why should I, on every morning since you first mentioned the subject to me, awake with Antony's words upon my lips? Why should every book or paper Ipick up contain some reference to Cleopatra? Why, man, if I were superstitious, it would seem positively spookish.I am getting to believe that I shall be confronted either by Cleopatra's name, or some allusion to her, every time I pick up a book.It's getting to be decidedly interesting.""I have had," I replied, "similar, though less remarkable, experiences.It is quite a common occurrence to learn of a thing, say, this morning for the first time in one's life, and then to find, in the course of the day's reading, three or four independent references to the same thing.Suppose we step into the library, and pick out a few books haphazard, just to see if we chance upon any reference to Cleopatra."To this Maitland agreed, and, entering the library, I pushed the Morning Herald across the table to him, saying: "One thing's as good as another; try that." He started a little, but did not touch the paper."You will have to find something harder than that," he said, pointing to the outspread paper.
I followed the direction of his finger, and read:
"Boston Theatre.Special engagement of Miss Fanny Davenport.
For one week.Beginning Monday, the 12th of December, Sardou's 'Cleopatra.'"I was indeed surprised, but I said nothing.The next thing I handed him was a copy of Godey's Magazine, several years old.He opened it carelessly, and in a moment read the following line: "I am dying, sweetheart, dying." "Doesn't that sound familiar? It reminds me at once of the poetic alarm clock that wakens me every morning, - 'I am dying, Egypt, dying.' There is no doubt that Higginson's poem suggested this one.Here is the whole of the thing as it is printed here," he said, and read the following:
LOVE'S TWILIGHT
I am dreaming, loved one, dreaming Of the sweet and beauteous past When the world was as its seeming, Ere the fatal shaft was cast.
I am sobbing, sad-eyed, sobbing, At the darkly sullen west, Of the smile of ignorance robbing The pale face against the breast.
