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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,
Has 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 mauld 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.
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 has 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
Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost for ever?
In living virtue, that when both must sever,
New Monthly MAGAZINE.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell-shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory!
TO THE MEMORY OF A VERY PROMISING
WRITTEN AFTER WITNESSING HER LAST MOMENTS.
I CANNOT weep, yet I can feel
The pangs that rend a parent's breast; But, ah! what sighs or tears can heal
Thy griefs, and wake the slumb'rer's rest ?
What art thou, spirit undefin'd,
That passest with man's breath away, That giv'st: him feeling, sense, and mind,
And leav'st him cold, unconscious clay ?
A moment gone, I look'd, and, lo!
Sensation throbb'd through all her frame; Those beamless eyes were raised in wo;
That bosom's motion went and came.
The next, a nameless change was wrought,
Death nipt in twain life's brittle thread, And, in a twinkling, feeling, thought,
Sensation, motion--all were fled !
Those lips will never more repeat
The welcome lesson conn'd with care ; Or breathe at even, in accents sweet,
To Heaven the well-remember'd prayer !
Those little hands shall ne'er essay
To ply the mimic task again,
A mother's promised gift to gain !
That heart is still no more to move,
That cheek is wan—no more to bloom, Or dimple in the smile of love,
That speaks a parent's welcome home.
And thou, with years and suff'rings bow'd,
Say, dost thou least this loss deplore ?
I fear thy secret grief is more.
But thine with life itself shall last ;
When all its morning-joys are past. 'Twas thine her infant mind to mould,
And leave the copy all thou art ; And sure the wide world does not hold
A warmer or a purer heart ! I cannot weep, yet I can feel
The pangs that rend a parent's breast; But ah! what sorrowing can unseal Those eyes, and wake the slumb’rer's rest?
Oliver & Boyd, Printers.