« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »
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 Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare; And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blazed the irradiate dome.
HENRY HART MILAAN.
Lines written on reading an argument to prove that the Irish were descended from the Jews.
In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart-
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.
Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken,
And fallen from her head is the once royal crown; In her streets, in her halls, desolation hath spoken,
And “while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."
Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning,
Die far from the home it were life to behold;
Remember the bright things that blessed them of old.
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 ?
Yet hadst thou thy vengeance--yet came there the morrow,
That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, When the scepter that smote thee with slavery and sorrow
Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.
When that cup, which for others the proud golden city
Had brimmed fuil 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
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover, The Lady of kingdoms lay low in the dust.
But IVho shall see?
UT who shall see the glorious day
When, throned on Zion's brow,
Which hides the nations now?
Of his rebuke shall lie ;
Be wiped from every eye.
Then, Judah, thou no more shalt mourn
Beneath the heathen's chain ;
And all be new again.
In peace, by all who come;
Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's
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;
Thou hast a tongue-come--let us hear its tune; Thou’rt standing on thy legs, above ground, Mummy,
Revisiting the glimpses of the moonNot 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?
Of either pyramid that bears his name?
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,
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled :
Thou couldst develop—if that withered tongue
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seenHow the world looked when it was fresh and young,
And the great deluge still had left it green; Or 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 prythee tell us something of thyself
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; Since in the world of spirits thou has slumbered-What hast tho'ı 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,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis;
If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold :
And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled;
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 forever ?
In living virtue—that when both must sever,
Cleopatra Embarking on the Cydnus.
After a Picture by Derby.
“The harge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burned on the water: the poop was bcaten gold:
LUTES in the sunny air !
And harps in the porphyry halls !
With its heart breathed swells and falls !