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O LEAVE the lily on its stem,
A cypress and a myrtle bough,
This morn around my harp you twin'd, Because it fashioned mournfully, Its murmurs in the wind.
And now a tale of love and woe,
But most, my own dear Genevieve,
It sighs and trembles most for thee! O come and hear what cruel wrongs Befel the Dark Ladie.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve, She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
O ever in my waking dreams,
I dwell upon that happy hour, When midway on the Mount I sate, Beside the ruined Tower.
The moonshine stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve.
She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listened to my harp, Amid the lingering light.
I played a sad and doleful air,
She listened with a flitting blush,
I told her of the Knight who wore
I told her how he pined: and ah!
She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed this bold and lovely knight, And how he roamed the mountain woods, Nor rested day nor night:
And how he crossed the woodman's path, Through briars and swampy mosses beat, How boughs, rebounding, scourged his limbs, And low stubs gored his feet:
How sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade,
There came and looked him in the face
And how unknowing what he did,
And how she wept and clasp'd his knees,
The scorn that crazed his brain :
And how she nurs'd him in a cave,
His dying words-but when I reached
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve,
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love and maiden shame, And like the murmurs of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.
I saw her bosom heave and swell,
Her wet cheek glowed, she stept aside,
She half inclosed me with her arins
She pressed me with a meek embrace, And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face.
"Twas partly love, and partly fear,
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
My bright and beauteous bride!
And now once more a tale of woe,
When last I sung the cruel scorn
That crazed this bold and lovely Knight, And how he roamed the mountain woods, Nor rested day nor night:
I promis'd thee a sister-tale
MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.
From the "New Monthly Magazine.”
AND thou hast walk'd about, (how strange a story!)
And time had not begun to overthrow
Speak! for thou long enough hast acted Dummy,
Thou hast a tongue-come let us hear its tune;
Not like thin ghosts, or disembodied creatures,
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?
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 play'd?
Perhaps thou wert a Priest-if so, my struggles
Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has nob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh glass to glass;
Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass,
I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled :-
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, March'd 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,
A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,
And tears down that dusky cheek have rolled :Have children climb'd those knees, and kiss'd that face? What was thy name and station, age and race?
Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead!
And standest undecayed within our presence,
Why should this worthless tegument endure,
In living virtue, that, when both must sever,