Address to an Egyptian Mummy.

AND thou hast walk'd about, (how strange a

story!)

In Thebes's street 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 mysteries of thy trade;
Then say what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise play'd? Perhaps thou wert a priest, and hast been dealing In human blood, and horrors past revealing.

Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,
Has hob-a-nobb'd 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.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd,
Has any Roman soldier maul'd or knuckled,
For thou wert dead and buried, and embalm'd,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled;
Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop, if that wither'd tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world look'd 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 Contain'd no record of its early ages!

Still silent, incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy

? then keep thy vows;

But pr'ythee tell us something of thyself,—
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house!

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumber'd, What hast thou seen, what strange adventures number'd?

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, March'd 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 confess'd,
The nature of thy private life unfold;

A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,
And tears adown thy dusty cheeks 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 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 embalm'd and pure
In living virtue; that, when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
Th' immortal spirit in the skies may bloom!

HORACE SMITH.

The Answer of the Egyptian Mummy.

CHILD of the latter 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 roll'd away.
Unswathed at length, I "stand at ease

ye,

"before

List, then, oh! list, while I unfold my story.

Thebes was my birth-place-an unrivall'd city,
With many gates,-but here I might declare.
Some strange plain truths, except that it were pity
To blow a poct'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 turn'd 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

One blunder I can fairly set at rest,

Не 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 sooth, 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
Threaded the mystic mazes of the dance:

This heart hath throbb'd at tales of love and woe, These shreds of raven hair once set the fashion, This wither'd form inspired the tender passion.

In vain! the skilful hand and feelings warm,
The foot that figured in the bright quadrille,
The palm of genius and the manly form,

All bow'd at once to death's mysterious will, Who seal'd me up where mummies sound are sleeping,

In cere-cloth, and in tolerable keeping.

Where cows and monkeys squat in rich brocade, And well-dress'd crocodiles in painted cases, Rats, bats, and owls, and cats in masquerade, With scarlet flounces and with varnish'd faces;