Or was it then so old that history's pages
Contained no record of its early ages?

Still silent! incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows;
But prithee tell us something of thyself,
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house;

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, What hast thou seen, what strange adventures numbered?

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, Marched 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 confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold:

A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled; Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face?

What was thy name and station, age and race?

Statue of flesh, - immortal of the dead!
Imperishable type of evanescence!

Posthumous man, who quit'st thy narrow bed,
And standest undecayed within our presence!
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment
morning,

When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning.

Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost forever?
O, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure
In living virtue, that when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom!

Leigh Hunt

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of

peace,

And saw within the moonlight in his room,
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,
Answer'd, "The names of those who love the
Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And show'd the names whom love of God had

bless'd,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Byron

FROM "THE GIAOUR"

HE who hath bent him o'er the dead

Ere the first day of death is fled,

The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And marked the mild angelic air,

The rapture of repose, that's there,
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And - but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appalls the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,

The first, last look by death revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore;

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away; Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!