Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's

THE JOURNEY ONWARDS. dark sea! Jehovah has triumphed — his people As slow our ship her foamy track are free.

Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back

To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
OFT IN THE STILL NIGHT. So loth we part from all we love,

From all the links that bind us; OFT, in the stilly night,

So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

To those we've left behind us !
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me;

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
The smiles, the tears
Of boyhood's years,

We talk with joyous seeming —

With smiles that might as well be tears, The words of love then spoken;

So faint, so sad their beaming;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm’d and gone,

While memory brings us back again

Each early tie that twined us,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,

O, sweet's the cup that circles then

To those we've left behind us !
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light

And when in other climes, we meet Of other days around me.

Some isle or vale enchanting,

Where all looks flowery wild and sweet, When I remember all

And nought but love is wanting; The friends, so link'd together, We think how great had been our bliss I've seen around me fall,

If Heaven had but assign'd us Like leaves in wintry weather; To live and die in scenes like this, I feel like one

With scme we've left behind us !
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,

As travellers oft look back at eve
Whose lights are fled,

When eastward darkly going,
Whose garlands dead,

To gaze upon that light they leave
And all but he departed !

Still faint behind them glowing, Thus, in the stilly night,

So, when the close of pleasure's day Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, To gloom hath near consign'd us, Sad Memory brings the light

We turn to catch one fading ray Of other days around me.

Of joy that's left behind us.

HORACE SMITH.

1779-1849. (AUTHOR of several novels and verses, In connection with his brother James he wrote clever parodies and criticisms in the Picnic, the London Review, and the Monthly Mirror, In the last appeared those imitations from his own and his brother's hand which were published in 1813 as The Rejected Addresses, one of the most successful and popular works that has ever appeared Besides these he wrote Brambletye House, in imitation of Scott's historical novels; also, Tor Hill, Walter Colyton, The Moneyed Man, The Merchant, and several others. His best performance is the Address to the Mummy, some parts of which exhibit the finest sensibility and an exquisite poctic taste.) ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN | Perhaps thou wert a mason, and for

bidden BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.

By oath to tell the secrets of thy

tradeAND thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story!)

Then say, what secret melody was hidIn Thebes' streets three thousand

den

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its

play'd ? glory,

Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so my And time had not begun to over

struggles throw

Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its Those temples, palaces, and piles stu

juggles. pendous, Of which the very ruins are

Perchance that very hand, now pin

tremendous !

ion'd flat, Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh,

glass to glass; Speak! for thou long enough hast

Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's bat, acted dumby;

Or doffd thine own to let Queen Dido Thou hast a tongue, come let us hear

pass, its tune;

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, Thou’rt standing on thy legs above

A torch, at the great Temple's dedicaground, mummy!

tion. Revisiting the glimpses of the moon. Not like thin ghosts or disembodied

I need not ask thee if that hand, when creatures,

arm'd, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs

Has any Roman soldier mauld and and features.

knuckled,

For thou wert dead, and buried, and Tell us — for doubtless thou canst rec

embalm'd, ollect

Ere Romulus and Remus had been To whom should we assign the

suckled : Sphinx's fame?

Antiquity appears to have begun Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Long after thy primeval race was run. Of either pyramid that bears his name?

Thou couldst develop, if that wither'! Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?

tongue Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung Might tell us what those sightless by Homer?

orbs have seen,

Neath cloister'd 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.

“ Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy

glory, Array’d,” the lilies cry, “in robes like How vain your grandeur! Ah, hos

transitory

Are human flowers !"

ours;

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 plann'd;

In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly

Artist!
With which thou paintest Nature's

wide-spread hall,
What a delightful lesson thou impartes!

Of love to all.

To that cathedral, boundless as our Not useless are ye, Flowers! though wonder,

made for pleasure: Whose quenchless lamps the sun and Blooming o'er field and wave, by day moon supply

and night, Its choir the winds and waves, its organ From every source your sanction bids me thunder,

treasure Its dome the sky.

Harmless delight. There – as in solitude and shade 1 | Ephemeral sages ! what instructors wander

hoary Through the green aisles, or, stretch'd For such a world of thought could upon the sod,

furnish scope? Awed by the silence, reverently ponder Each fading calyx a memento mori, The ways of God

Yet fount of hope. Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living Posthumous glories! angel-like collec preachers,

tion! Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a Upraised from seed or bulb interrei book,

in earth, Supplying to my fancy numerous teach- Ye are to me a type of resurrection,

And second birth.
From loneliest nook.

Were I, O God, in churchless lands
Floral Apostles! that in dewy splendor remaining,
Weep without woe, and blush with- Far from all voice of teachers or
out a crime,”

divines, may I deeply learn and ne'er surren- My soul would find, in flowers of thy der

ordaining, Your lore sublime !

Priests, sermons, shrines !

ers

REV. GEORGE CROLY.

1780–1860. CUPID CARRYING PROVISIONS. At his back the household store, THERE was once a gentle time

That the bridal gold must buy: When the world was in its prime;

Useless now the smile and sigh: And every day was holiday,

But he wears the pinion still, And every month was lovely May.

Flying at the sight of ill.
Cupid then had but to go

Oh, for the old true-love time,
With his purple wings and bow;
And in blossomed vale and grove

When the world was in its prime!
Every shepherd knelt to love.
Then a rosy, dimpled cheek,
And a blue eye, fond and meek;

DOMESTIC LOVE.
And a ringlet-wreathen brow,
Like hyacinths on a bed of snow;

O! LOVE of loves ! — to thy white hand

is given And a low voice, silver sweet,

Of earthly happiness the golden key. From a lip without deceit; Only those the hearts could move

Thine are the joyous hours of winter's

even, Of the simple swains to love.

When the babes cling around their But that time is gone and past,

father's knee; Can the summer always last?

And thine the voice, that, on the midAnd the swains are wiser grown,

night sea, And the heart is turned to stone,

Melts the rude mariner with thoughts And the maiden's rose may wither,

of home, Cupid's fled, no man knows whither. Peopling the gloom with all he longs But another Cupid's come,

to see. With a brow of care and gloom :

Spirit! I've built a shrine; and thou Fixed upon the earthly mould,

hast come Thinking of the sullen gold;

And on its altar closed — forever closed In his hand the bow no more,

thy plume.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

1781-1849. [BORN 17th of March, 1781, at the New Foundry, Masbro', near Rotherham, Yorkshire; wrote in his seventeenth year The Vernal Walk; worked in his father's foundry until 1804: made trials of business in Sheffield, of which the first failed; published his first volume of verse, 1823: Village Patriarch, 1829; Corn Law Rhymer, 1831; retired from business, 1841; died ist of December, 1849-)

SONG.
Child, is thy father dead?

Mother has sold her bed:
Father is gone!

Better to die than wed !
Why did they tax his bread?

Where shall she lay her head? God's will be done !

Home we have none !