Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue 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, And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, 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! Posthumous man, who quit'st thy narrow bed, Why should this worthless tegument endure, O, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure LESSON CLI. Hymn to the Flowers. HORACE SMITH. DAY-STARS, that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle Ye matin worshippers, who, bending lowly Ye bright mosaics, that with storied beauty What numerous emblems of instructive duty 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth, Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Which God hath planned, To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds and waves; its organ thunder; Its dome the sky. There, as in solitude and shade I wander Through the lone aisles, or, stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God, — Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers; Floral apostles, that in dewy splendor Weep without sin and blush without a crime, O, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender Your love sublime! "Thou wast not, Solomon, in all thy glory, `Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours: How vain your grandeur! O, how transitory In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist, With which thou paintest nature's wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all! Not useless are ye, flowers, though made for pleasure, Blooming o'er fields and wave by day and night; From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages, what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? Each fading calyx a 66 memento mori," Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories, angel-like collection, And second birth. Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining, LESSON CLII. A Song for St. Cecilia's Day. DRYDEN. FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony, And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Then cold and hot, and moist and dry, From harmony, from heavenly harmony, From harmony to harmony. Through all the compass of the notes it ran, What passion cannot music raise and quell? Less than a God, they thought, there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell, That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, And mortal alarms. The double, double, double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, "Hark! the foes come ! Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat." The soft, complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. |