ICH is the earth in streams;

O'er the green land unnumbered waters glide;
But brighter than the rest thy current gleams,
Egyptian tide!

Time throws no shadow on thy silver crown,
O river of renown!

Rich are the ancient shores,

Made fertile by thy flow, in piles that stand

To point how far the feeble spirit soars

Above the land:

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THE RISING OF THE NILE.

Thy way sublime o'ersweeps the marvellous ground,
A marvel more profound.

The pyramids are there;

Yet once the sunshine fell upon the spot

On which they stand forth went thy current fair,

And found them not.

Old as the earth they seem, but thou wert old
Fre man conceived their mould.

And when the traveller's eye

Shall find these sculptured glories (as it will)
Crumbled and dim, thy sands shall not be dry,
But sparkle still :

Along thy shores their ancient dust may fall,
But thou shalt flow o'er all.

Like sunshine on his sleep,

Thy fountain flashed on the explorer's sight,
Oh, transport (won with toil), to see thee leap

Into the light;

The cradling turf to press-to stoop and drink,
And breathe on that far brink!

But high, and higher still,

The wizard-water flows from hour to hour,

Encircling rainless cities—as a rill

Circles a flower:

Behold, o'er all it flows-o'er branch and plain,
That long had pined for rain.

THE RISING OF THE NILE.

And thousands at the sight,

Childhood and holy age, have sought the brim,
Fringed by the lotos-lilies, blue and white,
With heart and hymn,

To bless the rising river (come to save),

And worship the fond wave.

The palace and the plough

Are both forsaken; maidens from the bank
Descend to bathe; others, with song and vow,
Wind on in ranks;

And still, o'er all the breezeless tide, the air
Echoes some pealing prayer.

A hundred times the morn

Hath tinged the living flood; which now rolls back,
Leaving rich verdure upon fields forlorn,

Flowers on its track.

Green health and plenty on the parched land,

And fruit on what was sand.

Howe'er thy rise be traced—

If to Etesian air, that seaward blows;

Or the wild rush, through many a sunny waste,

Of Libyan snows;

Such art thou now, O Nile! and such of old,
Richer than streams of gold!

Delicious as at first,

As in that early time, thy ripples run,

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