I AM dying, Egypt, dying,

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,
And the dark Plutonian shadows

Gather on the evening blast;
Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me,

Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear;
Listen to the great heart-secrets,

Thou, and thou alone, inust hear.

And my

Though my scarr'd and veteran legions
Bear their eagles high no more,

wreck’d and scatter'd galleys Strew dark Actium's fatal shore, Though no glittering guards surround me,

Prompt to do their master's will, I must perish like a Roman,

Die the great Triumvir still.

Let not Cæsar's servile minions

Mock the lion thus laid low; 'Twas no foeman's arm that fell’d him.

'Twas his own that struck the blow: His who, pillow'd on thy bosom,

Turn'd aside from glory's ray, His who, drunk with thy caresses,

Madly threw a world away.

Should the base Plebeian rabble

Dare assail my name at Rome,



spouse, Octavia, Weeps within her widow'd home,

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Seek her; say the gods bear witness

Altars, augurs, circling wings

That her blood, with mine commingled,

Yet shall mount the throne of kings.

As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian,

Glorious sorceress of the Nile, Light the path to Stygian horrors

With the splendors of thy smile.
Give the Cæsar crowns and arches,

Let his brow the laurel twine;
I can scorn the Senate's triumphs,

Triumphing in love like thine.

I am dying, Egypt, dying;

Hark! the insulting foeman's cry. They are coming! quick, my falchion,

Let me front them ere I die. Ah! no more amid the battle

Shall my heart exulting swell; Isis and Osiris guard thee! Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!



HERE, Charmian, take

my bracelets, The bar with a purple stain My arms; turn over my pillows

They are hot where I have lain: Open the lattice wider,

A gauze on my bosom throw,

And let me inhale the odors

That over the garden blow.

I dreamed I was with my Antony,

And in his arms I lay ;
Ah, me! the vision has vanished-

The music has died away.
The flame and the perfume have perished-

As this spiced aromatic pastille
That wound the blue smoke of its odor

Is now but an ashy hill.

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Scatter upon me rose-leaves,

They cool me after my sleep, And with sandal odors fan me

Till into my veins they creep :
Reach down the lute, and play me

A melancholy tune,
To rhyme with the dream that has vanished,

And the slumbering afternoon.

There, drowsing in golden sunlight,

Loiters the slow smooth Nile,
Through slender papyri, that cover

The wary crocodile.
The lotus lolls on the water,

And opens its heart of gold,
And over its broad leaf-pavement

Never a ripple is rolled.
The twilight breeze is too lazy

Those feathery palms to wave,

And yon

little cloud is as motionless As a stone above a grave.

Ah, me! this lifeless nature

Oppresses my heart and brain ! Oh! for a storm and thunder

For lightning and wild fierce rain ! Fling down that lute--I hate it!

Take rather his buckler and sword, And crash them and clash them together

Till this sleeping world is stirred.

Hark! to my Indian beauty

My cockatoo, creamy white,
With roses under his feathers-

That flashes across the light.
Look! listen! as backward and forward

To his hoop of gold he clings,
How he trembles, with crest uplifted,

And shrieks as he madly swings! Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony !

Cry, “Come, my love, come home!Shriek, “ Antony! Antony! Antony!”

Till he hears you even in Rome.

There—leave me, and take from my chamber

That stupid little gazelle,
With its bright black eyes so meaningless,

And its silly tinkling bell !
Take him,-my nerves he vexes,

The thing without blood or brain,

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