Thus have I walk'd along the dewy lawn;
My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn ;
Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn,
And gather'd health from all the gales of morn.
And ev'n when Winter chill'd the aged year,
I wander'd lonely o'er the hoary plain :
Though frosty Boreas warn'd me to forbear,
Boreas, with all his tempests, warn'd in vain.
Then, sleep my nights, and quiet bless'd my days;
I fear'd no loss, my Mind was all my store;
No anxious wishes e'er disturb'd my ease;
Heav'n gave content and health-I ask❜d no more. Now, Spring returns: but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known; Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.
Starting and shivering in th' inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,
And count the silent moments as they pass;
The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art shall stop, or in their course arrest;
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest.
Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;
And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true:
Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu.
I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below
Which mortals visit, and return no more.
Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound,
Where melancholy with still silence reigns,
And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. There let me wander at the shut of eve,
When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes;
The world and all its busy follies leave,
And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies.
There let me sleep forgotten in the clay,
When death shall shut these weary aching eyes!
Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,
Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise,
MICHAEL BRUCE.
NOT in the land of a thousand flowers;
Not in the glorious Spice-wood bowers;
Not in fair islands by bright seas embraced;
Lives the wild Ostrich, the bird of the waste.
Come on to the desert, his dwelling is there,
Where the breath of the simoom is hot in the air;
To the desert, where never a green blade grew,
Where never its shadow a broad tree threw,
Where sands rise up, and in columns are wheel'd
By the winds of the Desert, like hosts in the field;
Where the Wild Ass sends forth a lone, dissonant bray,
And the herds of the Wild Horse speed on through the
day—
The creatures unbroken, with manes flying free,
Like the steeds of the whirlwind, if such there may be.
Yes, there in the Desert, like armies for war,
The flocks of the Ostrich are seen from afar,
Speeding on, speeding on o'er the desolate plain,
While the fleet mounted Arab pursueth in vain !
But 'tis joy to the traveller who toils through that land,
The egg of the Ostrich to find in the sand;
'Tis sustenance for him when his store is low,
And weary with travel he journeyeth slow
To the well of the Desert, and finds it at last
Seven days' journey from that he hath passed.
Or go to the Caffre-land,-what if you meet
A print in the sand, of the strong Lion's feet!
He is down in the thicket, asleep in his lair;
Come on to the Desert, the Ostrich is there
There, there! where the Zebras are flying in haste,
The herd of the Ostrich comes down o'er the waste-
Half running, half flying-what progress they make !
Twang the bow! not the arrow their flight can o’ertake!
Strong bird of the Wild, thou art gone like the wind,
And thou leavest the cloud of thy speeding behind;
Fare thee well! in thy desolate region, farewell,
With the Giraffe and Lion, we leave thee to dwell!
"I HEAR thee speak of the better land;
Thou call'st its children a happy band:
Mother! O where is that radiant shore?—
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?-
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs!
"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?—
Or 'midst the green islands on glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
"Not there, not there, my child
Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!"
HAIL, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose;
Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes!
Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes,
And Contemplation soar on seraph wings.
O Solitude, the man who thee foregoes,
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs
Vain man, is grandeur given to gay attire?
Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid :-
To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire?
It is thy weakness that requires their aid :—
To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid?
They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm:
To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade?
Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm!
Behold what deeds of woe the locust can perform!
True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind
Virtue has raised above the things below,
Who every hope and fear to Heav'n resign'd,
Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her dreadful blow:
This strain from 'midst the rocks was heard to flow.
In solemn sounds. Now beam'd the evening star;
And from embattled clouds emerging slow
Cynthia came riding on her silver car;
And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar.
VII.-Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's
Exhibition.
AND thou hast walk'd 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 thy 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?
Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,
Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh glass to glass;
Or dropp'd a halfpenny 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.
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,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?
If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd,
The nature of thy private life unfold :—
A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,
And tears adown that dusky cheek have roll'd:
Have children climb'd those knees, and kiss'd that face?
What was thy name and station, age and race?
|