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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 played ? Perhaps thou wert a Priest—if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never own its juggles. Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,

Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's

hat,
Or doffed 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 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?
Still silent! incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secresy? 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,

Wehave, above ground, seen some strangemutations; The Roman Empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, Whilst 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 dusky 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 quitt'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 for ever?
Oh ! 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 !

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drew;

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
“Good speed!” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts un-
“ Speed !” echoed the wall to us galloping through ;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our

place ;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ;
At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half

chime,
So, Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time!”
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray :

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent

back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,-ever that glance O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, “Stay

spur!

Your Ross galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix”—for one heard the quick

wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering

knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like

chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And “Gallop !" gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight! !
How they'll greet us !”—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and crop over, lay dead as a stone ;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-socket's rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without

peer ;

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad

or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news

from Ghent.

Jochiel's WARNING.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Wizard. LOCHIEL! Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight : They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of liar, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ! 'Tis thine, oh, Glenullin ; whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate; A steed comes at morning : no rider is there, But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led! Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead

; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall waveCulloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave. Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-tell

ing seer ! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,

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