Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 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, Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass; I need not ask thee, if that hand, when arm'd, Has any Roman soldier maul'd 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, If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd, What was thy name and station, age and race? Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead! Why should this worthless tegument endure, 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. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. We buried him darkly at dead of night, 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, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 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! WOLFE. TO THE MEMORY OF A VERY PROMISING CHILD, WRITTEN AFTER WITNESSING HER LAST MOMENTS. I CANNOT weep, yet I can feel The pangs that rend a parent's breast; 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, Those lips will never more repeat The welcome lesson conn'd with care; Those little hands shall ne'er essay Well pleased, forgetting mirth and play, That heart is still-no more to move, That speaks a parent's welcome home. And thou, with years and suff'rings bow'd, Youth's griefs are loud, but are not long ; 'Twas thine her infant mind to mould, 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? M'DIARMID. THE END. Oliver & Boyd, Printers. |