THE FATHER-LAND.

95

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ;
It is an attribute of God himself ;
And earthly power doth then shew likest God's
When mercy seasons justice.

SHAKSPERE.

THE FATHER-LAND.

BREATHES there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,

“ This is my own, my native land ?” Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd

From wand'ring on a foreign strand?
If such there be, go, mark him well ;
For him no minstrel-raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concenter'd all in self,
Living shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

O Caledonia, stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child !
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood !
Land of my sires ! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand ?

96

ADDRESS TO A MUMMY.

Still as I view each well-known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as to me of all bereft,
Sole friends thy woods and streams are left :
And thus I love them better still,
E'en in extremity of ill.
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my wither'd cheek;
Stil lay my head by Teviot-stone,
Thuugh there, forgotten and alone,
The bard may draw his parting groan.

SCOTT.

ADDRESS TO A MUMMY IN BELZONI'S

EXHIBITION.

And thou hast walked about (how strange a

story!) In Thebes' '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 dumby; Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its

tune;

ADDRESS TO A MUMMY.

97 Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground,

mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon. Not like their ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and

features.

Tell us,- for doubtless thou can'st recollect,

To whom we should 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 pinioned fat,

Has hob-a-nobbed 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. 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 slumber'd, What thou hast seen,—what strange adventures

number'd ?

I “ Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon."

SHAKSPERE.

98

YOUTH AND AGE.

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. 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 ? Statue of flesh! immortal of the dead !

Imperishable type of evanescence ! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,

And standest undecay'd within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, When the last trump shall thrill thee with its

warning

HORACE SMITH.

YOUTH AND AGE.

VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where hope clung feeding, like a bee,-
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With nature, hope, and poesy,

YOUTH AND AGE.

99

When I was young!
When I was young ?-Ah, woful when !
Ah! for the change 'twixt now and then !
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flash'd along;
Like those trim skiffs unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and river's wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely ; love is flower-like ;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
Oh, the joys that came down shower-like
Of friendship, love, and liberty,

Ere I was old!
Ere I was old ?-Ah, woful ere!
Which tells me, youth's no longer here !
O youth ! for years so many and sweet
'Tis known that thou and I were one ;
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be, that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll’d:-
And thou wert aye a masker bold.
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gone ?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this alter'd size :