Each fading calyx a memento mori, HORACE SMITH. Posthumous glories! angel-like collec tion! Upraised from seed or bulb interred in Ye are to me a type of resurrection, Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining, Far from all voice of teachers or divines, My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining, Priests, sermons, shrines! 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 Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, 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, ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. A torch, at the great temple's dedica tion ! 141 Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden, By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade; Tell us, lect, To whom should we assign the Sphinx's Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 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! Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? T - for doubtless thou canst recol- Still silent!- Incommunicative elf! ―― Art sworn to secrecy? Then keep thy But, prithee, 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? BERNARD BARTON. [1784-1849.] NOT OURS THE VOWS. NOT ours the vows of such as plight To walk on flowers together. But we have loved as those who tread That thorny path, those stormy skies, Each to the other dearer. Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, With mirth and joy may perish ; That to which darker hours gave birth Still more and more we cherish. It looks beyond the clouds of time, By faith and hope immortal. LEIGH HUNT. [1784-1859.] AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. How sweet it were, if without feeble Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed, -as we shall know forever. Alas! we think not what we daily see About our hearths, angels, that are to be, ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold; Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, then, Write me as one that loves his fellowmen." The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. |
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