LONG UNFINISHED

Sunk in the sands by its own weight, the Sphinx
Intelligible lies; its nobler part, —
That sweet, great face — still touching every heart,
That 'midst the lonely ruins walks, and thinks
On perished states, made perfect by such art.
But thou! our Sphynx, — lone column, strong and white.
When this our empire totters to decay,
The senile riddle of thy broken height
And feeble unfulfillment, who shall say?
" A race unstable and degenerate, " they
Who pass may cry, " here sought some shrine to lift —
Not such as carved complete yon wondrous disk
In Egypt, but some brood ingrate with thrift,
And souls unfinished like this obelisk! "