The landsman may quail
At the shout of the gale,
Peril's the sailor's joy;
Wild as the waves

Which his vessel braves.

Is the lot of the sailor boy.

Song.

BY THE REV. J. WOLFE.

F I had thought thou couldst have died,

IF

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be;
It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,
That I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain !

But when I speak, thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid,

And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay even as thou art,
All cold, and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!

Address to an Egyptian Mummy.

While e'en thy chill bleak corpse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own,
But there I lay thee in thy grave-

And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I perhaps may soothe this heart,
In thinking, too, of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore !

377

Address to the Egyptian Mummy in

AND

Belzoni's Exhibition.

BY HORACE SMITH.

ND thou hast walk'd 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 ;

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 Cephrénes, 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 play'd?
Perhaps thou wert a priest-if so, my struggles
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,

Hath hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh, glass to glass; Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat;

Or doff'd 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 arm'd,
Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled?
For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalm'd,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled:
Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop, if that wither'd tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,

How the world look'd when it was fresh and young, And the great Deluge still had left it green!

Address to an Egyptian Mummy.

Or was it then so old that History's pages
Contain'd no record of its early ages?

Still silent! Incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy? Then keep thy vows; But, prithee, tell us something of thyself,

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house;

379

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumber'd,
What hast thou seen-what strange adventures number'd?

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 confess'd,
The nature of thy private life unfold:

A heart hath throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,
And tears adown that dusky cheek have roll'd,
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!

Imperishable type of evanescence!

Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,
And standest undecay'd 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?
Oh let us keep the soul embalm'd and pure
In living virtue, that when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.