To the Rising Sun

THE sorrows of long ages thou hast known:
Sad Egypt with vain toil and crossed desire;
Judea wailing with her captive choir;
Greece, and the Turk that scaled the Parthenon;
Rome with her fading laurel; Stamboul won;
And Venice treading in the steps of Tyre:
Ages are moths that wither in thy fire,
And empires, gnat-like, flutter, and are gone.
What are earth’s trophies in thy conquering glance ?
Shall bubble fane or mushroom pyramid
Dim thy clear eye or vail thy haughty lid ?
Thou call’st in challenge through the azure plain
To zoned Orion, bidd’st the Pleiads dance,
And chid’st Auriga for his lingering wain.