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I love the organ's joyous swell,
Sweet echo of the joyous ode!
Faint emblem of he call of God.
I bid my swelling sorrows cease ; I do but touch the mercy seat,
And hear the still small voice of peace.
And, as the ray of evening fades,
I love amidst the dead to stand, Where, in the chancel's deepening shades,
I seem to meet the ghostly band. One comes ;-Oh! mark his sparkling eye!
I knew his faith, his strong endeavour; Another-Ah! I hear him sigh,
Alas! and is he gone for ever !
Another treads the shadowy aisle,
I know him—'tis my sainted sire ; I know his patient angel smile,
His shepherd voice, his eye of fire !His ashes rest in yonder urn ;
I saw his death ;-I closed his eye; Bright sparks amidst those ashes burn,
That death has taught me how to die.
Long be our Father's temple ours,—
Woe to the hand by which it falls ; A thousand spirits watch its towers,
A cloud of angels guard its walls. And be their shield by us possessed !
Lord, rear around thy blest abode, The buttress of a holy breast,
The rampart of a present God' Manchester Exchange Herald.
TO THE EGYPTIAN MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.
BY HORACE SMITH, ESQ.
AND thou hast walked about—how strange a story!
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago! When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And Time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous !
Speak, for thou long enough hast acted Dummy!
Thou hast a tongue-come-let us hear its tune!
Revisiting the glimpses of the Moon;
Tell us—for doubtless thou canst recollect,
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ?
Of either Pyramid that bears his name?
Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden,
By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade, Then say, what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? Perhaps thou wert a Priest—if so, my struggles Are vain,- for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharoah, glass to glass ; Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat ;
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass :
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled ?
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled :
Thou could'st develope, if that withered tongue
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world looked when it was fresh and young,
And the great Deluge still had left it green! Or was it then so old that History's pages Contained no record of its early ages ?
Still silent! Incommunicative elf!
Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ; But, prythee, tell us something of thyself,—
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; Since in the world of spirits, thou hast slumbered, What hast thou seen—what strange adventures numbered ?
Since first thy form was in this box extended,
We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations ;The Roman Empire has begun and ended ;
New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations; And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.
Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head
When the great Persian Conqueror, Cambyses,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,
If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold :
A heart hath throbbed beneath that leathern breast,
And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled. Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face? What was thy name, and station, age, and race ?
Statue of flesh!-Immortal of the dead !
Imperishable type of evanescence! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,
And standest undecayed within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, When the great Trump shall thrill thee with its warning.
Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost for ever ?
In living virtue, that when both must sever,
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. New Monthly Magazine.
THE FORSAKEN HEART.
My heart is like a lonely lyre,
And thou art as the careless fingers,
Which tore those tuneless strings away ;
Wastes it away.
The world, the senseless world remembers,
The music which hath passed away :
But thou art gay.
BY THE REV. J. BERESFORD.
UNDERNEATH the greenwood tree,
Where our asses have been grazing; By some old torn rag we dropped,
When our crazy tents were raising ;You may see where we have been ; Where we are that is not seen. Where we are,-it is no place For a lazy foot to trace. Over heath and over field,
He must scramble who would find us ; In the copse-wood close concealed,
With a running brook behind us.
On the stream the trout are leaping;