My will is conquered by her won't!
So then I goes and gets some blocks,
And with them makes a little box;
And takes some straw, the very best,
And makes the nicest kind of nest;
Then in the nest the eggs I place,
And feel a smile upon my face
As I thinks, now at last I've got her,
When in the little box I've sot her;
For to this little box I did

Consider I must have a lid,
So that she couldn't get away,

But in it, till she hatched, must stay.
And then again, once more I chase her,
And catch, and in the box I place her.
Again I snaps her on the head,

Until I fear she might be dead;

And then, when I had made her sit down,
Immediately I claps the lid on.

And now, thinks I, I've got her fast,

She'll have to do her work at last.

No longer shall I stand the brunt

Of this old hen's confounded won't!

So I goes in and tells mine folks,

And then I takes my pipe and smokes,
And walks about and feels so good

That 'wouldn't' yields at length to 'would.'
And as so oft I'd snapped the hen,

I took some 'schnapps' myself, and then
I thought I'd see how the old creature
Was getting on where I had set her;
The lid, the box so nicely fits on,
I gently raised-dunder and blitzen!
(Give me more schnapps and fill the cup!)
There she was sitting-standing up!"

A WOMAN'S QUESTION.-ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
Before I trust my fate to thee,
Or place my hand in thine,
Before I let thy future give

Color and form to mine,

Before I peril all for thee,
Question thy soul to-night for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel

A shadow of regret:

Is there one link within the past
That holds thy spirit yet?

Or is thy faith as clear and free

As that which I can pledge to thee?

Does there within thy dimmest dreams
A possible future shine,
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouched, unshared by mine?

If so, at any pain or cost,

Oh, tell me before all is lost!

Look deeper still: if thou canst feel,
Within thy inmost soul,

That thou hast kept a portion back,

While I have staked the whole,
Let no false pity spare the blow,
But in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine cannot fulfil?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?
Speak now, lest at some future day
My whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid
The demon-spirit, change,
Shedding a passing glory still

On all things new and strange?

It may not be thy fault alone,—

But shield my heart against thine own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day
And answer to my claim,

That fate, and that to-day's mistake-
Not thou-had been to blame?

Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou

Wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay, answer not,-I dare not hear;

The words would come too late; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So comfort thee, my fate; Whatever on my heart may fall, Remember, I would risk it all!

ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY AT BELZONI'S EXHIBI-
TION.-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 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?
Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden

By oath to tell the secrets 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 owns its juggles.
Perhaps 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 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?
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!

ANSWER OF "BELZONI'S" MUMMY.

Child of the later days! thy words have broken

A spell that long has bound these lungs of clay,-
For since this smoke-dried tongue of mine hath spoken,
Three thousand tedious years have rolled away.
Unswathed at length, I "stand at ease" before ye,
List, then, oh list, while I unfold my story.

Thebes was my birth-place, an unrivalled city
With many gates,-but here I might declare
Some strange, plain truths, except that it were pity
To blow a poet's fabric into air;

Oh, I could read you quite a Theban lecture,
And give a deadly finish to conjecture.

But then you would not have me throw discredit

On grave historians, or on him who sung

The Iliad; true it is, I never read it,

But heard it read when I was very young. An old blind minstrel for a trifling profit Recited parts,—I think the author of it.

All that I know about the town of Homer

Is that they scarce would own him in his day, Were glad, too, when he proudly turned a roamer, Because by this they saved their parish pay.

His townsmen would have been ashamed to flout him, Had they foreseen the fuss since made about him.

One blunder I can fairly set at rest!

He says that men were once more big and bony Than now, which is a bouncer at the best;

I'll just refer you to our friend Belzoni, Near seven feet high; in truth a lofty figure. Now look at me and tell me,- -am I bigger?

Not half the size, but then I'm sadly dwindled;
Three thousand years with that embalming glue
Have made a serious difference, and have swindled
My face of all its beauty; there were few
Egyptian youths more gay ;-behold the sequel!
Nay, smile not; you and I may soon be equal.

For this lean hand did one day hurl the lance
With mortal aim; this light, fantastic toe

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