O Nubian moon, the silence, is it thine
Which follows us by this enchanted shore;
Haunting thy shadows’ gloom as they incline
Like basalt shafts prone on the ivory floor?
A peopled silence, where old shapes divine
In long procession pass each sculptured door.
Nor wholly voiceless, for each rustling wave,
Trembling mimosa, and dim palmy crest,
And the low zephyr lingering by his grave,
Who needed not its dark oblivious rest,
Whisper—till every silent architrave,
And stately pylon own the immortal Guest,
And the wave bears it as its waters pour,
Murmuring Osiris through the Cataract’s roar!