MUMMY AT BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, 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 prythee tell us something of thyself Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; 35 Since in the world of spirits thou has 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, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, The nature of thy private life unfold: 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, HORACE SMITH. Cleopatra Embarking on the Cydnus. After a Picture by Derby. "The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, Purple the sail; and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver, The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. FLUTES in the sunny air! SHAKESPEARE. And harps in the porphyry halls! And a low deep hum-like a people's prayer With its heart breathed swells and falls! 37 CLEOPATRA ON THE CYDNUS. And an echo-like the desert's call,— The sky is a gleam of gold! And the amber breezes float, Like thoughts to be dreamed of but never told, She has stepped on the burning sand; And the Syrian strikes, with a trembling hand, And the Æthiop's heart throbs loud and high, And the Lybian kneels, as he meets her eye, Like the flash of an Eastern star ! The gales may not be heard, Yet the silken streamers quiver, And the vessel shoots-like a bright-plumed bird- Away by the lofty mount! And away by the lonely shore ! And away by the gushing of many a fount Where fountains gush no more! O for some warning vision there, Some voice that should have spoken Of climes to be laid waste and bare, And glad young spirits broken! Of waters dried away, And hope and beauty blasted !— That scenes so fair and hearts so gay Should be so early wasted! A dream of other days! That land is a desert now! And grief grew up to dim the blaze The whirlwind's burning wing hath cast And sorrow--like the simoom-past For like her fervid clime that bred Its self-consuming fires, Her heart-like Indian widows-fed Not such the song her minstrels sing― As the vessel darts, with its purple wing. Away down the golden river! THOMAS K. HERVEY. THE Cleopatra at Actium. I. HE banners of the world are met upon that wild blue wave, The sun hath risen that shall set upon an empire's grave; From tongues of many a land bursts forth the war-shout to the breeze, And half the crowns of all the earth are played for on the seas! II. The ocean hath a tinge of blood,—a sound of woe the air; Death swims his pale steed through the flood-O what doth woman there? The shout of nations, in their strife, rings far along the lea, And what doth Egypt's dark-eyed queen upon that battle-sea ? CLEOPATRA AT ACTIUM. III. 39 The Cydnus, hath it not the same bright wave and gentle flow With which it stole to Tarsus, in those happy years ago, When music haunted all the shores by which its waters rolled, And she came down the river in her galley of the gold? IV. Her oars were of the silver then, and to her purple sails, V. Oh, the old city! and alas! the young and blessed dream That fell into her spirit first upon its silver stream! The wild sweet memories of that morn still o'er her feelings float, And love has launched this battle-bark that steered that golden boat. VI. And she is yet, to one high heart, through all this cloud of war, As in that city of the sea, its own and only star— The cynosure that shines as bright, across that place of graves, As first it rose upon his soul from o'er the Cydnus' waves. VII. O, love, that is so bold to dare, should be more strong to do, Or what, O what doth Egypt there, with that soft, silken crew? And she should have a firmer soul who treads the battle-deck; And passion, where it fails to save, is, oh, too sure to wreck |