It speaks of former scenes of days gone by- Till the soft spell of music o'er it creep, And thaw the ice away, and bid the dreamer weep! Anon. ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. And thou hast walked about, (how strange a story!) Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy, Thou hast a tongue-come let us hear its tune; Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs and features. Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect, To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden In Memnon's statue which at sunrise played? Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh glass to glass; Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass, I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled, For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, Still silent, incommunicative elf? Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; But pr'ythee tell us something of thyself, Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, 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, Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, Why should this worthless tegument endure, O let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue, that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. Anon. SONG OF DEATH. Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun; Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, Our race of existence is run! Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark, Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark! In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, O who would not rest with the brave? Burns. |