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 could'st develope, 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 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 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,
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,
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 hath throbbed beneath that leathern breast,
And tears adown that dusty cheek have 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. New Monthly Magazine.
My heart is like a lonely lyre,
Whose melody hath died away:
The flame of a neglected fire,
Burning away.
And thou art as the careless fingers,
Which tore those tuneless strings away;
The gale, which as the last spark lingers,
Wastes it away.
The world, the senseless world remembers,
The music which hath passed away :
Its tears have steeped the cold, cold embers;
But thou art gay.
BY THE REV. J. BERESFORD.
UNDERNEATH the greenwood tree,
There we dwell right merrily,
Lurking in the grassy lane,
Here this hour-then gone again.
You may see where we have been,
By the burned spot on the green ;
By the oak's branch drooping low,
Withered in our faggot's glow;
By the grass and hedge-row cropped,
Where our asses have been grazing;
By some old torn rag we dropped,
When our crazy tents were raising;—
You may see where we have been ;
Where we are that is not seen.
Where we are, it is no place
For a lazy foot to trace.
Over heath and over field,
He must scramble who would find us;
In the copse-wood close concealed,
With a running brook behind us.
Here we list no village clocks;
Livelier sound the farm-yard cocks,
Crowing, crowing round about,
As if to point their roostings out;
And many a cock shall cease to crow,
Or ere we from the copse-wood go.
On the stream the trout are leaping;
Midway there the pike is sleeping,—
Motionless, self-poised he lies-
Stir but the water-on he flies,
E'en as an arrow through the skies!
We could tie the noose to snare him,
But by day we wisely spare him ;—
Nets shall scour the stream at night,
By the cold moon's trusty light;-
Scores of fish will not surprise her,
Writhing with their glittering scale;
She'll look on, none else the wiser,
Give us light, and tell no tales;
And next day the sporting squire
Of his own trout shall be the buyer.
Till the farmer catch us out,
Prowling his rich barns about ;-
Till the squire suspect the fish;
Till the keeper find his hares,
Struggling in our nightly snares;
Till the girls have ceased to wish,
Heedless what young lad shall be
Theirs in glad futurity;
Till the boors no longer hold
Awkwardly their rough hands out,
All to have their fortunes told
By the cross lines thereabout;—
Till these warnings, all or some,
Raise us (not by beat of drum— !)
On our careless march to roam,
The copse shall be our leafy home.
ADDRESSED TO THE BEAUTIFUL AND ACCOMPLISHED LADY C.
BY THE REV. C. COLTON.
By Nature formed, at all points, to excel,
All things to do,-write, speak, and all things well,
Transcendent with thy pencil as thy pen,
With this you've conquered women, that the men ;
Both sexes, thus, thy full dominion prove
O'er each ;-by envy this, and this by love;
Both titles too thou'st won, then deign to wear,
We see a Venus, but a Pallas hear!
JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE.
THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES.
ADIEU! Romance's heroines !
Give me the nymphs who this good hour
May charm me, not in fiction's scenes,
But teach me beauty's living power;—
My harp, that has been mute too long,
Shall sleep at beauty's name no more,
So but your smiles reward my song,
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore,-
In whose benignant eyes are beaming
The rays of purity and truth,
Such as we fancy woman's seeming,
In the creation's golden youth.
The more I look upon thy grace,
Rosina, I could look the more,
But for Jemima's witching face,
And the sweet voice of Eleanore.
Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted
Their portraits, till I'd painted yours,
And these had future hearts enchanted,
When this poor verse no more endures;
I would have left the Congress faces,
A dull-eyed diplomatic corps,
Till I had grouped you as the Graces,
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.
The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him;
Your poet's heart is catholic too;
His rosary shall be flowers ye send him,
His saint-days when he visits you;
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