The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy; Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home; He that went forth a tender yearling boy Yet ere he die to Salem's streets shall come; And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear; And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blazed the irradiate dome. HENRY HART MILMAN. The Parallel. Lines written on reading an argument to prove that the Irish were descended from the Jews. ES, sad one of Sion, if closely resembling, YE In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart— 66 If drinking deep, deep, of the same cup of trembling,”Could make us thy children, our parent thou art. Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken, Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning, Ah, well may we call her, like thee, "the forsaken," Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, Have tones 'mid their mirth like the wind over graves! BUT WHO SHALL SEE? 333 33 Yet hadst thou thy vengeance-yet came there the morrow, When that cup, which for others the proud golden city Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips; And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships. When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over And a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover, THOMAS Moore. But Who Shall See? BUT who shall see the glorious day When, throned on Zion's brow, The Lord shall rend that veil away Which hides the nations now? When earth no more beneath the fear When pain shall cease, and every tear Then, Judah, thou no more shalt mourn Thy days of splendor shall return, And all be new again. The fount of life shall then be quaffed In peace, by all who come; And every wind that blows shall waft Some long-lost exile home. THOMAS MOORE. Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition. A ND thou hast walked about (how strange a story) In Thebes' 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; Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect- 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 secrets of thy tradeThen 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. Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat, Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass; Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat; Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass; 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; Since in the world of spirits thou has 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, 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! |