  “I was weary, very weary; but when I leaned against the Pyramids, they gave me strength.”—Koscielski. A wanderer from his childhood’s home, An exile from his father-land, His weary feet were doomed to roam Far o’er the desert’s scorching sand. No mother o’er his pillow smiled, No sister’s hand a blessing lent; His only couch the desert wild, His only home an Arab tent. Upon the classic shores of Greece, And by the imperial towers of Rome, He vainly sought to find that peace Denied him in his childhood’s home. Beneath Lake Leman’s watery bed, In Chillon’s dungeon damp and low, Communing with the mighty dead, His spirit felt a kindred glow. He drank Circassia’s breath of bloom, He climbed the Alps’ eternal snows, He plucked the leaves by Virgil’s tomb, And stood where ancient Jordan flows. And where Napoleon’s falchion gleamed Along the borders of the Nile, The pilgrim exile slept, and dreamed He saw his own loved mother’s smile. With weary feet he came, at last, Where, all untouched by Time’s rude hands, The Pyramids their shadows cast Upon the desert’s burning sands. Still in their works of greatness dwelt The spirits of these mighty men; Before their majesty he knelt! He rose—and he was strong again. O thou! whose life is all inwrought With cheerful faith and strength sublime, Leave thou some monumental thought Upon the desert waste of Time. Some exile from his native heaven May tread the path which thou hast trod, And through thy works may strength be given To lift his spirit up to God. |
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