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Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,

ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. A torch, at the great temple's dedica

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But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features!

tion!

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 couldst develop, 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?

Tell us, - for doubtless thou canst recol- Still silent!-Incommunicative elf! lect,

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's
fame?

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his
name?

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by
Homer?

Art sworn to secrecy? Then keep thy
Vows!

But, prithee, tell us something of thy
self, -

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered,

What hast thou seen, what strange adventures numbered?

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REGINALD HEBER.

The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us!” "Lord, bless us !" echo cries; "Amen!" the breezes murmur low; "Amen!" the rill replies:

The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts The proud with pangs are paying, But here, O God of earth and heaven! The humble heart is praying.

How softly, in the pauses

Of song, re-echoed wide,

The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay,
O'er rill and river glide!
With evil deeds of evil men

The affrighted land is ringing; But still, O Lord, the pious heart And soul-toned voice are singing!

Hush! hush! the preacher preacheth:
"Woe to the oppressor, woe!"
But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun
And saddened flowers below;

So frowns the Lord! -but, tyrants, ye
Deride his indignation,

And see not in the gathered brow
Your days of tribulation!

Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher!
The tempest bursts above:
God whispers in the thunder; hear
The terrors of his love!

On useful hands and honest hearts

The base their wrath are wreaking; But, thanked be God! they can't prevent The storm of heaven from speaking.

CORN-LAW HYMN.

LORD! call thy pallid angel,

The tamer of the strong!

And bid him whip with want and woe

The champions of the wrong! O, say not thou to ruin's flood, "Up, sluggard! why so slow?"

But alone let them groan, The lowest of the low; And basely beg the bread they curse, Where millions curse them now!

No; wake not thou the giant

Who drinks hot blood for wine, And shouts unto the east and west, In thunder-tones like thine, Till the slow to move rush all at once, An avalanche of men,

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While he raves over waves That need no whirlwind then; Though slow to move, moved all at once, A sea, a sea of men!

REGINALD HEBER.

[1783-1826.]

IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE.

If thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,
How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind, approving eye,
Thy meek, attentive ear.

But when of morn or eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still;
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates
Nor wild Malwah detain;

For sweet the bliss us both awaits
By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they

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BERNARD BARTON.

[1784-1849.]

NOT OURS THE VOWS.

NOT ours the vows of such as plight
Their troth in sunny weather,

While leaves are green, and skies are bright,

To walk on flowers together.

But we have loved as those who tread
The thorny path of sorrow,
With clouds above, and cause to dread
Yet deeper gloom to-morrow.

That thorny path, those stormy skies,
Have drawn our spirits nearer ;
And rendered us, by sorrow's ties,
Each to the other dearer.

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, With mirth and joy may perish; That to which darker hours gave birth Still more and more we cherish.

It looks beyond the clouds of time,
And through death's shadowy portal;
Made by adversity sublime,

By faith and hope immortal.

LEIGH HUNT.

[1784-1859.]

AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air
At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his
bowers

News of dear friends, and children who
have never
Been dead indeed, -
forever.

-as we shall know

Alas! we think not what we daily see About our hearths, angels, that are to

be,

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Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold; Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,'

But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

then,

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There's naught but dust now mine, lassie,
There's naught but dust now mine;
My saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
An' why should I stay behin't

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