Agamemnon's Tomb
Uplift the ponderous, golden mask of death,And let the sun shine on him as it didHow many thousand years agone! BeneathThis worm-defying, uncorrupted lid,Behold the young, heroic face, round-eyed,Of one who in his full-flowered manhood died;Of nobler frame than creatures of to-day,Swathed in fine linen cerecloths fold on fold,With carven weapons wrought of bronze and gold,Accoutred like a warrior for the fray.
We gaze in awe at these huge-modeled limbs,Shrunk in death's narrow house, but hinting yetTheir ancient majesty; these sightless rimsWhose living eyes the eyes of Helen met;The speechless lips that ah! what tales might tellOf earth's morning-tide when gods did dwellAmidst a generous-fashioned, god-like race,Who dwarf our puny semblance, and who wonThe secret soul of Beauty for their own,While all our art but crudely apes their grace.
We gather all the precious relics up,The golden buttons chased with wondrous craft,The sculptured trinkets and the crystal cup,The sheathed, bronze sword, the knife with brazen haft.Fain would we wrest with curious eyes from theseUnnumbered long-forgotten histories,The deeds heroic of this mighty man,On whom once more the living daylight beams,To shame our littleness, to mock our dreams,And the abyss of centuries to span.
Yet could we rouse him from his blind repose,How might we meet his searching questionings,Concerning all the follies, wrongs, and woes,Since his great day whom men call King of Kings,Victorious Agamemnon? How might weThose large, clear eyes confront, which scornfullyWould view us as a poor, degenerate race,Base-souled and mean-proportioned? What replyGive to the beauty-loving Greek's heart-cry,Seeking his ancient gods in vacant space?
What should he find within a world grown cold,Save doubt and trouble? To his sunny creedA thousand gloomy, warring sects succeed.How of the Prince of Peace might he be told,When over half the world the war-cloud lowers?How would he mock these faltering hopes of ours,Who knows the secret now of death and fate!Humbly we gaze on the colossal frame,And mutely we accept the mortal shame,Of men degraded from a high estate.
Words in this poem 22
- uplift v. t.
- To lift or raise aloft; to raise; to elevate; as, to uplift the arm; to uplift a rock.
- carven a.
- Wrought by carving; ornamented by carvings; carved.
- sightless a.
- Wanting sight; without sight; blind.
- speechless a.
- Destitute or deprived of the faculty of speech.
- dwell v. i.
- To delay; to linger. [OE. dwellen, dwelien, to err, linger, AS. dwellan to deceive, hinder, delay, dwelian to err; akin to Icel. dvelja to delay, tarry, Sw. dväljas to dwell, Dan. dv]
- amidst prep.
- In the midst or middle of; surrounded or encompassed by; among. [OE. amidde, amiddes, on midden, AS. on middan, in the middle, fr. midde the middle. The s is an adverbial ending, originally marking the genitive; the t is a la]
- generous a.
- Of honorable birth or origin; highborn. [F. généreux, fr. L. generous of noble birth, noble, excellent, magnanimous, fr. genus birth, race: cf. It. generoso. See 2d Gender.]
- puny a.
- Imperfectly developed in size or vigor; small and feeble; inferior; petty. [F. puîté younger, later born, OF. puisné; puis afterwards (L. post; see Post-) + né born, L. natus. See Natal, and cf. Puisne.]
- crudely adv.
- In a crude, immature manner.
- wondrous adv.
- In a wonderful or surprising manner or degree; wonderfully. [OE. wonders, adv. (later also adj.). See Wonder, n., and cf. -wards.]
- craft n.
- Strength; might; secret power. [AS. cr strength, skill, art, cunning; akin to OS., G., Sw., & Dan. kraft strength, D. kracht, Icel. kraptr; perh. originally, a drawing together, stretching, fr]
- haft n.
- A handle; that part of an instrument or vessel taken into the hand, and by which it is held and used; -- said chiefly of a knife, sword, or dagger; the hilt. [AS. hæft; akin to D. & G. heft, Icel. hepti, and to E. Heave, or have. Cf. Heft.]
- fain v. t.
- To be glad ; to wish or desire.
- curious a.
- Difficult to please or satisfy; solicitous to be correct; careful; scrupulous; nice; exact. [OF. curios, curius, F. curieux, L. curiosus careful, inquisitive, fr. cura care. See Cure.]
- unnumbered a.
- Not numbered; not counted or estimated; innumerable.
- daylight n.
- The light of day as opposed to the darkness of night; the light of the sun, as opposed to that of the moon or to artificial light.
- confront v. t.
- To stand facing or in front of; to face; esp. to face hostilely; to oppose with firmness.
- sunny a.
- Of or pertaining to the sun; proceeding from, or resembling the sun; hence, shining; bright; brilliant; radiant.
- faltering a.
- Hesitating; trembling.
- humbly adv.
- With humility; lowly.
- colossal a.
- Of enormous size; gigantic; huge; as, a colossal statue. [Cf. F. cossal, L. colosseus. See Colossus.]
- mutely adv.
- Without uttering words or sounds; in a mute manner; silently.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Agamemnon's Tomb is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Poems of Emma Lazarus, Volume 1, Project Gutenberg ebook #3295; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Emma Lazarus, Agamemnon's Tomb, in Admetus, and Other Poems (1867–1887), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #3295, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/lazarus-poems/agamemnon-s-tomb.html, id L01898.
Form and metre
Agamemnon's Tomb is 50 lines in 5 stanzas of 10 lines each. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 89%). 93% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 10.0 syllables. 3 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 24% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic pentameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 -A-ABBCDDC death · didA · beneath · lidA · eyedB · diedB · dayC · foldD · goldD · frayC
- 2 ABABCCD--D limbsA · yetB · rimsA · metB · tellC · dwellC · raceD · won · own · graceD
- 3 ABABCCDEED upA · craftB · cupA · haftB · theseC · historiesC · manD · beamsE · dreamsE · spanD
- 4 ABABC-DCCD reposeA · questioningsB · woesA · kingsB · weC · scornfully · raceD · replyC · cryC · spaceD
- 5 ABBA--CDDC coldA · creedB · succeedB · toldA · lowers · ours · fateC · frameD · shameD · estateC
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Uplift the ponderous, golden mask of death, | 10 | /˘·/˘/˘··· |
| And let the sun shine on him as it did | 10 | ·········· |
| How many thousand years agone! Beneath | 10 | ·/˘/˘·˘/·· |
| This worm-defying, uncorrupted lid, | 10 | ··˘/˘····· |
| Behold the young, heroic face, round-eyed, | 10 | ˘/··˘/˘··· |
| Of one who in his full-flowered manhood died; | 10 | ······//·· |
| Of nobler frame than creatures of to-day, | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| Swathed in fine linen cerecloths fold on fold, | 11 | ···/˘······ |
| With carven weapons wrought of bronze and gold, | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| Accoutred like a warrior for the fray. | 10 | ····/˘˘··· |
| We gaze in awe at these huge-modeled limbs, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Shrunk in death's narrow house, but hinting yet | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Their ancient majesty; these sightless rims | 10 | ·/˘/˘˘·/˘· |
| Whose living eyes the eyes of Helen met; | 10 | ·/˘····/˘· |
| The speechless lips that ah! what tales might tell | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Of earth's morning-tide when gods did dwell | 9 | ··/˘····· |
| Amidst a generous-fashioned, god-like race, | 10 | ˘/·/˘/˘··· |
| Who dwarf our puny semblance, and who won | 10 | ··//˘/˘··· |
| The secret soul of Beauty for their own, | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| While all our art but crudely apes their grace. | 10 | ··/··/˘··· |
| We gather all the precious relics up, | 10 | ·/˘··/˘/˘· |
| The golden buttons chased with wondrous craft, | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/˘· |
| The sculptured trinkets and the crystal cup, | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/˘· |
| The sheathed, bronze sword, the knife with brazen haft. | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Fain would we wrest with curious eyes from these | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Unnumbered long-forgotten histories, | 10 | ˘/˘·˘/˘/˘˘ |
| The deeds heroic of this mighty man, | 10 | ··˘/˘··/˘· |
| On whom once more the living daylight beams, | 10 | ·····/˘/·· |
| To shame our littleness, to mock our dreams, | 10 | ··//˘˘··/· |
| And the abyss of centuries to span. | 10 | ··˘/·/˘˘·· |
| Yet could we rouse him from his blind repose, | 10 | ········˘/ |
| How might we meet his searching questionings, | 10 | ·····/˘/˘˘ |
| Concerning all the follies, wrongs, and woes, | 10 | ˘/˘··/˘··· |
| Since his great day whom men call King of Kings, | 10 | ·········· |
| Victorious Agamemnon? How might we | 10 | ˘/˘·˘/···· |
| Those large, clear eyes confront, which scornfully | 10 | ····˘/···· |
| Would view us as a poor, degenerate race, | 10 | ······˘/˘· |
| Base-souled and mean-proportioned? What reply | 10 | ····˘/˘·˘/ |
| Give to the beauty-loving Greek's heart-cry, | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| Seeking his ancient gods in vacant space? | 10 | /˘·/˘··/˘· |
| What should he find within a world grown cold, | 10 | ·········· |
| Save doubt and trouble? To his sunny creed | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| A thousand gloomy, warring sects succeed. | 10 | ·/˘/˘/˘·˘/ |
| How of the Prince of Peace might he be told, | 10 | ·········· |
| When over half the world the war-cloud lowers? | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| How would he mock these faltering hopes of ours, | 10 | ·····/˘··/ |
| Who knows the secret now of death and fate! | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Humbly we gaze on the colossal frame, | 10 | /˘····˘/˘· |
| And mutely we accept the mortal shame, | 10 | ·/˘·˘/·/˘· |
| Of men degraded from a high estate. | 10 | ··˘/˘···˘/ |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.