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 moon,

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,
But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.
Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden

By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade-
Then 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.
Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass,
Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doffed 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 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.

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

(BY HORACE SMITH.)

DAY-STARS! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,
And dewdrops on her lonely altars sprinkle
As a libation.

Ye matin worshippers! who, bending lowly
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye,
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy
Incense on high.

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty,
The floor of Nature's temple tesselate,
What numerous emblems of instructive duty
Your forms create!

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth, And tolls its perfume on the passing air,

Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth
A call to prayer.

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,

But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,

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 thunderIts dome the sky.

There, as in solitude and shade I wander

Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder

The ways of God.

Your voiceless lips, O Flowers! are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book,

Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers

From loneliest nook.

Floral apostles! that in dewy splendour

"Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender

Your lore sublime!

"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, Arrayed,” the lilies cry, “in robes like ours; How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory

Are human flowers!"

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!

Notuseless are ye, Flowers! though made for pleasure: Blooming o'er field 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 memento mori,

Yet fount of hope.

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,
Ye are to me a type of resurrection,

And second birth.

Were I in churchless solitudes remaining,

Far from all voice of teachers and divines,
My soul would find, in flowers of God's ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines!

Sir Alexander Boswell. {

Born 1775.
Died 1822.

ELDEST Son of "Johnson's Boswell," and grandson of Lord Auchinleck. a Scottish judge, was author of several amusing songs and poems in the Scottish dialect. He wrote some personal satires on Stuart of Dunearn, which led to a duel, in which Boswell was mortally wounded, and died 26th March 1822.

JENNY'S BAWBEE.

I MET four chaps yon birks amang,
Wi' hingin' lugs, and faces lang;
I speired at neibour Bauldy Strang,
Wha's thae I see?

Quo' he, ilk cream-faced pawky chiel,
Thought he'd o' cunning unco skeel,
And here they cam, awa' to steal
Jenny's bawbee.

The first, a captain till his trade,

Wi' skull ill lined, and back weel clad,

Marched round the barn, and by the shed,
And pappit on his knee.

Quo' he: "My goddess, nymph and queen,
Your beauty's dazzled baith my een;'

But nought a beauty he had seen

But-Jenny's bawbee.

money

A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab,
Wha speeches wove like ony wab,
In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,
And a' for a fee:

Accounts he had through a' the town,

And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown;
Haith now he thought to clout his gown
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

A norland laird neist trotted up,
Wi' bawsen'd naig and siller whup,

Cried "There's my beast, lad, haud the grup,
Or tie 't till a tree.

"What's gowd to me?--I've walth o' lan';
Bestow on ane o' worth your han';"
He thought to pay what he was awn
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

A' spruce frae ban'boxes and tubs,
A Thing cam neist-but life has rubs-
Foul were the roads, and fou the dubs,
Ah! waes me!

A' clatty, squintin' through a glass,
He girned, "I' faith, a bonny lass!"
He thought to win, wi' front o' brass,
Jenny's bawbee.

She bade the laird gang comb his wig,
The sodger no to strut so big,

The lawyer no to be a prig,

The fool cried "Tehee,

I kent that I could never fail!"

She preen'd the dish-clout till his tail.
And cooled him wi' a water-pail,

And kept her bawbee.

Richard Gall.

{

Born 1776
Died 1801

A PRINTER in Edinburgh, who wrote some very beautiful Scottish songs

MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE O.

THY cheek is o' the rose's hue,

My only jo and dearie O;
Thy neck is like the siller-dew
Upon the banks sae briery 0;
Thy teeth are o' the ivory,

O sweet's the twinkle o' thine e'e!
Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,
My only jo and dearie O.

The birdie sings upon the thorn,
It sang o' joy, fu cheerie O,
Rejoicing in the summer morn,
Nae care to mak it eerie O;
But little kens the sangster sweet
Aught o' the cares I hae to meet,
That gar my restless bosom beat,
My only jo and dearie O.

When we were bairnies on yon brae,
And youth was blinking bonny (,
Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day,

Our joys fu' sweet and mony 0;
Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea,
And round about the thorny tree,
Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee
My only jo and dearie O.

I hae a wish I canna tine,

'Mang a' the cares that grieve me ();
I wish thou wert for ever mine,
And never mair to leave me 0:
Then I wad daut thee night and day,
Nor ither warldly care wad hae,
Till life's warm stream forgot to play.
My only jo and dearie O.