Child of the gorgeous East, whose ardent suns
Have kissed thy velvet skin to deeper lustre
And given thine almond eyes
A look more calm and wise
Than any we pale Westerners can muster,
Alas! my mean intelligence affords
No clue to grasp the meaning of the words
Which vehemently from thy larynx leap.
How is it that the liquid language runs?
"_Nai--soring--trîf--erwonbi--aster---ferish--îp._"
E'en so, methinks, did CLEOPATRA woo
Her vanquished victor, couched on scented roses
And PHARAOH from his throne
With more imperious tone
Addressed in some such terms rebellious Moses;
And esoteric priests in Theban shrines,
Their ritual conned from hieroglyphic signs,
Thus muttered incantations dark and deep
To Isis and Osiris, Thoth and Shu:
"_Nai--soring--trîf--erwonbi--aster---ferish--îp._"
In all my youthful studies why was this
Left out? What tutor shall I blame my folly on?
From Sekhet-Hetepu
Return to mortal view,
O shade of BRUGSCH or MARIETTE or CHAMPOLLION;
Expound the message latent in his speech
Or send a clearer medium, I beseech;
For lo! I listen till I almost weep
For anguish at the priceless gems I miss:
"_Nai--soring--trîf--erwonbi--aster--ferish--îp._"
To sundry greenish orbs arranged on trays--
Unripe, unluscious fruit--he draws attention.
My mind, till now so dark,
Receives a sudden spark
That glows and flames to perfect comprehension;
And I, whom no Rosetta Stone assists,
Become the peer of Egyptologists,
From whom exotic tongues no secrets keep;
For this is what the alien blighter says:
"Nice orang'; three for one piastre; very cheap."
H. W. BERRY.
Jan. 8, 1919.
_In Memoriam_