ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY.

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!

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XXIV.-ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY.

HORACE SMITH

AND thou hast walked about-how strange a story!—
In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago!
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 their bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features

Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect,

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?

Perhaps thou wert a mason,—and forbidden,
By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade :
Then say, what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise play'd?
Perhaps thou wert a priest ;-if so, my struggles
Are in vain,-for priestcraft never owns its juggles!

Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,

Hath hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh, glass to glass,

Or dropp'd a half-penny in Homer's hat,-
Or doff'd 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 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.

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,
How the world look'd 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
Contain'd no record of its early ages?

XXV.-THE PRESS.

GOD said "Let there be light!"
Grim darkness felt his might,

And fled away;

Then startled seas and mountains cold
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold
And cried-" "Tis day! 'tis day!"

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Hail, holy light!" exclaim'd

The thunderous cloud that flamed

O'er daisies white;

And lo! the rose in crimson dress'd

Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast;

ELLIOTT

And blushing, murmur'd-" Light!"

Then was the skylark born;
Then rose the embattl'd corn;

Then floods of praise

Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon;

And then, in stillest night, the moon
Pour'd forth her pensive lays.

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS

Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad !—-
Lo, trees and flowers all clad

In glory, bloom!

And shall the mortal sons of God

Be senseless as the trodden clod,
And darker than the tomb?
No, by the mind of man!
By the swart artisan !

By God, our sire!

Our souls have holy light within—
And every form of grief and sin
Shall see and feel its fire.
By earth, and hell, and heaven,
The shroud of souls is riven !
Mind, mind alone

Is light, and hope, and life, and power!
Earth's deepest night from this bless'd hour,
The night of minds is gone!
"The Press!" all lands shall sing;
The Press, the Press we bring
All lands to bless :

O pallid Want! O Labor stark !
Behold, we bring the second ark'

The Press the Press! the Press!

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XXVI.-THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.

I WROTE Some lines once on a time
In wondrous merry mood,

O. W. HOLMES.

And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;

Albeit, in the general way,

A sober man am I.

I call'd my servant, and he came ;
How kind it was of him,

To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!

He took the paper, and I watch'd,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad,
And shot from ear to ear;

He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;

The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,`

And since, I never dare to write

As funny as I

can.

XXVII.-HORATIUS.

IT stands in the Comitium
Plain for all folks to see;
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one knee ;
And underneath is written,
In letters all of gold,

How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

And still his name sounds stirring
Unto the men of Rome,

T. B. MACAULAY

As the trumpet blast that cries to them
To charge the Volscian home;

JOAN OF ARC.

And wives still pray to Juno
For boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well
In the brave days of old.

And in the nights of winter,

When the cold north-winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest's din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet within;

When the oldest cask is opened,
And the largest lamp is lit,

When the chestnuts glow in the embers
And the kid turns on the spit;

When young and old in circle

Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows;

When the good man mends his armor,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the good wife's shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom ;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,

How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

XXVIII-JOAN OF ARC.

BATTLE's blast is fiercely blowing,

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JOHN STER LING.

Clarions sounding, coursers bounding,
Pennons o'er the tumult flowing,
Host on host the eye astounding,
Wave on wave that sea confounding,
And in headlong fury going,
Mounted kingdoms wildly dashing,
Lance to lance, and steed to steed;
Now must haughtiest champions bleed,