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The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy;

Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home; He that went forth a tender yearling boy

Yet ere he die to Salem's streets shall come ; And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear; And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare; And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blazed the irradiate dome.

HENRY HART MILMAN.

The Parallel.

Lines written on reading an argument to prove that the Irish were descended from the Jews.

VES, sad one of Sion, if closely resembling,

1 In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heartIf drinking deep, deep, of the same “ cup of trembling,"

Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.

Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken,

And fallen from her head is the once royal crown; In her streets, in her halls, desolation hath spoken,

And “ while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."

Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning,

Die far from the home it were life to behold;
Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning,

Remember the bright things that blessed them of old.

Ah, well may we call her, like thee, “the forsaken,"

Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,

Have tones 'mid their mirth like the wind over graves !

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Yet hadst thou thy vengeance-yet came there the morrow,

That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, When the scepter that smote thee with slavery and sorrow

Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud golden city

Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips; And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,

The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over

Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover, The Lady of kingdoms lay low in the dust.

THOMAS MOORE.

But Ilho Shall See?

RUT who shall see the glorious day
D When, throned on Zion's brow,
The Lord shall rend that veil away

Which hides the nations now?
When earth no more beneath the fear

Of his rebuke shall lie ;
When pain shall cease, and every tear

Be wiped from every eye.

Then, Judah, thou no more shalt mourn

Beneath the heathen's chain ;
Thy days of splendor shall return,

And all be new again.
The fount of life shall then be quaffed

In peace, by all who come;
And every wind that blows shall waft
Some long-lost exile home.

THOMAS MJORE.

Exhibition.

AND thou hast walked about (how strange a story)

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 moonNot 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

By oath to tell the secrets of thy tradeThen 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.

Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat,

Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat;

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass;

MUMMY AT BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. 35

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

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,

Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled :
Antiquity appears to have begun
Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop-if that withered tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seenHow 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 has slumbered-What hast thoil 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,
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread-

O’erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis;
And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,

The nature of thy private life unfold :
A heart has 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 forever ? 0! 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 !

HORACE SMITH.

Cleopatra Embarking on the Cydnus.

After a Picture by Derby.

“The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,

Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold:
Purple the sail; and so perfumed that
The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of fintes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes.

SHAKESPEARE.

LLUTES in the sunny air !
1 And harps in the porphyry halls !
And a low deep hum-like a people's prayer-

With its heart breathed swells and falls !

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