THE TOMB OF AURUNGZEBE.
"Oh, fleeting honours of the dead,
Oh, high ambition lowly laid."
"A mighty tomb, fit for a mighty king,
One last great mockery, a thousand slaves
Dug marble from the quarry, then arose
The slow foundation—men put forth their skill
In rich devices, and in ornament,
Then towered the rounded column, and the walls
Shone with red gold and many-coloured stones.
Then spread the broidered purple for a pall,
And all for what?—to hide some grains of dust."
So might the cynic say; so say not I.
It is a glorious thing for man to war
With time, by some great work. Wherefore was skill,
And energy, and industry, bestowed,
If that he use them not? How many hearts
In the completion of this building throbbed
With the fine pride of art—that pride which leads
To all that can redeem or civilize
Our human nature. Now, what solemn thoughts
Brood here! an atmosphere from which we draw
Such lessons as the dead alone can give,
And only they when present to the mind,
As they are present in this monument—
Oh, build tombs for the dead, they're mightier there
Than in their living palaces!
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