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It speaks of former scenes—of days gone by-
Of early friendships—of the loved and lost-
And wakes such music in the heart as sigh
Of evening wooes from barpstrings gently crost ;
And thoughts and feelings crowd—a varied host,
O'er the lone bosom from their slumbers deep,
Unfelt amidst its winter's gathering frost
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!)

In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, 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 ; Thou’rt standing on thy legs, above ground, mummy!

Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,

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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

By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade, 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.

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,

Has 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,
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 seen, How the world looked when it was fresh and young,

And the great Deluge still had left it greenOr 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 pr’ythee 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.

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,

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 dusky cheek bave 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 for ever?
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, frighten the coward and slave ;
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know,

No terrors hast thou to the brave !

Thou strik’st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark,

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ;
Thou strik'st the young heroma glorious mark !

He falls in the blaze of his fame!

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, 0! who would not rest with the brave ?

Burns.

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