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Each fading calyx a memento mori, Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbid. Yet fount of hope.

den,

By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy Posthumous glories! angel-like collec

trade; tion !

Then say, what secret melody was hidden Upraised from seed or bulb interred in In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise earth,

played? Ye are to me a type of resurrection, Perhaps thou wert a priest ; if so, my A second birth,

struggles

Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its Were I, O God! in churchless lands re

juggles maining, Far from all voice of teachers or di. Perchance that very hand, now pinioned vines,

flat, My soul would find, in flowers of thy

Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, ordaining,

glass to glass; Priests, sermons, shrines ! Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat;

Or doffed thine own, to let Queen Dido

pass;

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. A torch, at the great temple's dedica.

tion! AND thou hast walked about - how strange a story !

I need not ask thee if that hand, when In Thebes's streets, three thousand armed, years ago!

Has any Roman soldier mauled and When the Memnonium was in all its knuckled; glory,

For thou wert dead, and buried, and emAnd time had not begun to over balmell, throw

Ere Romulus and Remus had been Those temples, palaces, and piles stupen

suckled :
dous,

Antiquity appears to have begun
Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! Long after thy primeval race was run.

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have seen,

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted Thou couldst develop, if that withered dummy;

tongue Thou hast a tongue,

come, let us hear Might tell us what those sightless orbs its tune! Thou ’rt standing on thy legs, above How the world looked when it was fresh

ground, mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, And the great deluge still had left it Not like thin ghosts or disembodied green; creatures,

Or was it then so old that history's But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, pages and features!

Contained no record of its early ages?

and young,

Tell us,

for doubtless thou canst recol. Still silent !- Incommunicative elf! lect,

Art sworn to secrecy? Then keep thy To whom should we assign the Sphinx's vows! fame?

But, prithee, tell us something of thy. Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

self, of either pyramid that bears his Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; name?

Since in the world of spirits thou hast Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?

slumbered, Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by What hast thou seen, what strange adHomer

ventures numbered ?

1

Since first thy form was in this box

EBENEZER ELLIOTT. extended, We have, above ground, seen some

(1781 - 1849.) strange mutations; The Roman Empire has begun and ended,

A GHOST AT NOON. New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations,

The day was dark, save when the beam And countless kings have into dust been

Of noon through darkness broke; humbled,

In gloom 1 sat, as in a dream, While not a fragment of thy flesh has

Beneath iny orchard oak; crumbled.

Lo! splendor, like a spirit, came,

A shadow like a tree! Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy While there 1 sat, and named her name head,

Who once sat there with me.
When the great Persian conqueror,
Cambyses,

I started from the seat in fear;
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with

I looked around in awe,
thundering tread,

But saw no beauteous spirit near,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, –
And shook the pyramids with fear and the seat, the tree, where oft, in tears,

Though all that was I saw,
wonder,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? Her joys cut off in early years,

She mourned her hopes o'erthrown,
If the tomb's secrets may not be con-

Like gathered flowers half blown.
fessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold: Again the bud and breeze were met,
A heart hath throbbed beneath that

Bat Mary did not come;
leathern breast,

And e'en the rose, which she had set, And tears acown that dusty cheek

Was fated ne'er to bloom! have rolled ;

The thrush proclaimed, in accents sweet, Have children climbed those knees, and

That winter's reign was o'er; kissed that face?

The bluebells thronged around my feet, What was thy name and station, age and

But Mary came no more. race?

Statue of flesh! Immortal of the dead !
Imperishable type of evanescence !

FOREST WORSHIP.
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy
narrow bed,

Within the sunlit forest, And standest undecayed within our Our roof the bright blue sky, presence!

Where fountains flow, and wild-flowers Thou wilt hear nothing till the judg. blow, ment morning,

We list our hearts on high : When the great trump shall thrill thee Beneath the frown of wicked men with its warning!

Our country's strength is bowing ;

But, thanks to God! they can't prevent Why should this worthless tegument The lone wild flowers from blowing!

endure, If its undying guest be lost forever? High, high above the trec-tops, 0, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure

Where streams the light through broken In living virtue, - that when both clouds must sever,

His speckled breast I see: Although corruption may our frame con. Beneath the might of wicked men

The poor man's worth is dying; The immortal spirit in the skies may But, thanked be God! in spite of them, bloom!

The lark still warbles flying!

sume,

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The preacher prays, “Lord, bless us!"

While he raves over waves “Lord, bless us!" echo cries;

That need no whirlwind then; “Amen!" the breezes murmur low; Though slow to move, moved all at once, “Amen!" the rill replies:

A sea, a sea of men! The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts

The proud with pangs are paying,
But here, O God of earth and heaven!
The humble heart is praying.

REGINALD HEBER.
How softly, in the pauses
Of song, re-echoed wide,

(1783 – 1826.]
The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay,
O'er rill and river glide!

IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE. With evil deeds of evil men

The affrighted land is ringing; IF thou wert by my side, my love,
But still, O Lord, the pious heart

How fast would evening fail
And soul-toned voice are singing!

In green Bengala's palmy grove,

Listening the nightingale! Hush! hush! the preacher preacheth: “Woe to the oppressor, woe!”

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun

My babies at my knee,
And saddened flowers below;

How yayly would our pinnace glide So frowns the Lord ! — but, tyrants, ye

O'er Gunga's mimic sea!
Deride his indignation,

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
And see not in the gathered brow

When, on our deck reclived,
Your days of tribulation!

In careless ease my limbs I lay,

And woo the cooler wind.
Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher!
The tempest bursts above:

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream God whispers in the thunder; hear

My twilight steps 1 guide,
The terrors of his love!

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam On useful hands and honest hearts

I miss thee from my side.
The base their wrath are wreaking;
But, thanked be God! they can't prevent I spread my books, my pencil try,
The storm of heaven from speaking. The lingering noon to cheer,

But miss thy kind, approving eye,

Thy meek, attentive ear.

But when of morn or eve the star
CORN-LAW HYMN.

Beholds me on my knee,
LORD! call thy pallid angel,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
The tamer of the strong!

Thy prayers ascend for me.
And bid him whip with want and woe

Then on! then on! where duty leads, The champions of the wrong!

My course be onward still ; 0, say not thou to ruin's flood,

O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, "Up, sluggard ! why so slow?"

O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
But alone let them groan,
The lowest of the low;

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates
And basely beg the bread they curse, Nor wild Malwah detain;
Where millions curse them now! For sweet the bliss us both awaits

By yonder western main. No; wake not thou the giant

Who drinks hot blood for wine, Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they And shouts unto the east and west,

say, In thunder-tones like thine,

Across the dark-blue sea ; Till the slow to move rush all at once, But ne'er were hearts so light and gay An avalanche of men,

As then shall meet in thee!

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BERNARD BARTON.

Or may be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy

air,
(1784-1849.]

A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart

sings NOT OURS THE VOWS.

In unison with ours, breeding its future Not ours the vows of such as plight

wings. Their troth in sunny weather, While leaves are green, and skies are

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. bright, To walk on flowers together.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe in

crease !) But we have loved as those who tread

Awoke one night from a deep dream of The thorny path of sorrow,

peace, With clouds above, and cause to dread

And saw within the moonlight in his Yet deeper gloom to-morrow.

room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, That thorny path, those stormy skies, An angel, writing in a book of gold;

Have drawn our spirits nearer ; Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem And rendered us, by sorrow's ties,

bold, Each to the other dearer.

And to the presence in the room he said,
What writest thou?" The vision raised

its head,
Love, born in hours of joy and mirth,
With mirth and joy may perish ;

And with a look made of all sweet accord, That to which darker hours gave birth

Answered, “The names of those who love Still more and more we cherish.

the Lord.” “And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay,

not so, It looks beyond the clouds of time, And through death's shadowy portal ; But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee,

Replied theangel. Abou spoke more low, Made by adversity sublime,

then, By faith and hope immortal.

Write me as one that loves his fellow

men." The angel wrote and vanished. The

next night LEIGH HUNT.

It came again, with a great wakening

light, (1784-1859.)

And showed the names whom love of God

had blessed, AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the

rest. How sweet it were, if without feeble

fright,
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
To see him issile from the silent air
At evening in our room, and bend on ours

(1783 - 1842.)
His divine eyes, and bring us from his
bowers

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. News of dear friends, and children who have never

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, Been dead indeed, as we shall know A wind that follows fast, forever.

And fills the white and rustling sail, Alas ! we think not what we daily see And bends the ga ant mast, About our hearths, angels, that are to And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,

be,

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

145

Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on our lee.

And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,

And I will speak o' thee.

O for a soft and gentle wind !

I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the swelling breeze, SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

And white waves heaving high, The white waves heaving high, my lads, She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, The good ship tight and free;

She 's gane to dwall in heaven: The world of waters is our home,

Ye 're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, And merry men are we.

For dwalling out o' heaven!

O, what 'll she do in heaven, my lassie?

0, what 'll she do in heaven? THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD.

She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels'

sangs, Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,

An' make them mair meet for heaven.
By that pretty white hand o' thine,
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,

She was beloved by a', my lassie,
That thou wad aye be mine;
And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, But an angel fell in love wi' her,

She was beloved by a';
And by that kind heart o' thine,

An' took her frae us a'.
By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,
That thou shalt aye be mine.

Low there thou lies, my lassie,

Low there thou lies; Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose a bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, sic bands,

Nor frae it will arise!
An' the heart that wad part sic luve;
But there's nae hand can loose my band,
But the finger o' God abuve.

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, Though the wee, weecot maun be my bield, Fu' soon I'll follow thee;

And my claithing e'er so mean, Thou left me nanght to covet ahin', I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o'luve,

But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. Heaven's arfu' o' my Jean.

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, Her white arm wad be a pillow for me I looked on thy death-cold face; Far safter than the down ;

Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud, And Luve wad winnow owre us his kind, An' fading in its place.

kind wings, An' sweetly I'd sleep, an' soun'.

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve,

I looked on thy death-shut eye; Come here, and kneel wi' me!

An'a lovelier light in the brow of heaven The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,

Fell time shall ne'er destroy. An' I canna pray without thee. The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,

Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; o'new flowers,

But gane was the holy breath o' heaven, The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie;

To sing the evening psalm. Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard

dyke, And a blythe auld bodie is he. There's naught but dust now mine, lassie, The Beuk maun be taen when the carle There's naught but dust now mine; comes hame,

My saul's wi' thee i' the cauld

grave, Wi' the holie psalmodie;

An' why should I stay behin'?

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