Life's crowded pomp and pageant show
May darker passions move,
But solitude alone can know
The incense-thoughts of love.
When worldly cares are hushed in sleep,
Love wakes at such an hour,
Young hopes their angel vigils keep,
And joy resumes its power:
Though night, in all its dusky state,
Athwart the skies be thrown;
Yet Beauty's glance can then create
A noontide all her own!
"TIS a fitting time for hope to die,
When all is dying round us;
When the flowers in withered fragrance lie
Whose wreaths so lately crowned us.
'Tis a fitting time for sorrow's shade
To cast its darkness o'er us,
When all in heaven and earth doth fade,
And look so blank before us.
The skies are grey, the winds are chill,
The earth is sad and dreary;
And human bosoms feel the ill,
And sigh till they are weary.
All that is gay and bright and fair,
In Nature's works is sleeping;
Then why should we escape from care,
When 'tis the time for weeping ?
By cheerful wit and graphic tale, refreshening the harassed spirit. TUPPER.
DIVERSIONS are the most properly applied to ease and relieve those who are oppressed, by being too much employed. Those that are idle have no need of them, and yet they, above all others, give themselves up to them. To unbend our thoughts, when they are too much stretched by our cares, is not more natural than it is necessary; but to turn our whole life into a holiday, is not only ridiculous, but destroyeth pleasure instead of promoting it.-SAVILLE.
THE OXFORD STUDENT TO HIS MOTHER.
DEAR mother, your anger to soften,
At last I sit down to indite;
"Tis clear I am wrong very often,
Since 'tis true I so seldom do write!
But now I'll be silent no longer,
Pro and con all my deeds I'll disclose;
All the pros in my verse I'll make stronger,
And hide all the cons in my pros!
You told me, on coming to College,
To dip into books and excel;
Why, the tradesmen themselves must acknowledge
I've dipt into books pretty well!
The advice you took pleasure in giving
To direct me is sure to succeed,
And I think you'll confess I am living
With very great credit indeed!
I wait on the reverend doctors,
Whose friendship you told me to seek;
And, as for the two learned proctors,
They've called for me twice in a week!
THE OXFORD STUDENT TO HIS MOTHER.
Indeed, we've got intimate lately,
And I seldom can pass down the street,
But their kindness surprises me greatly,
For they stop me whenever we meet!
My classics, with all their old stories,
I now very closely pursue,
And ne'er read the Remedia Amoris
Without thinking, dear mother, of you!
Of Virgil I've more than a smatter,
And Horace I've nearly by heart;
But though famed for his smartness and satire,
He's not quite so easy as Smart.
English bards I admire every tittle,
And dote on poetical lore;
And, though yet I have studied but Little,
I hope to be master of Moore !
You'll see, from the nonsense I've written,
That my devils are none of the blues,
That I'm playful and gay as a kitten,
And nearly as fond of the muse!
Bright puns (oh! how crossly you bore 'em!)
I scatter while logic I cram;
For Euclid and Pons Asinorum
We leave to the Johnians of Cam.
My pony, in spite of my chidings,
Is as skittish and shy as can be!
Not Yorkshire, with all its three Ridings,
Is half such a shier as he!
I wish he were stronger and larger,
For, in truth, I must candidly own
He is far the most moderate charger
In this land of high chargers I've known!
My doubts of profession are vanished;
I'll tell you the cause when we meet;
Church, Army, and Bar I have banished,
And now only look to the Fleet!
Come down, then, when summer is gilding
Our gardens, our trees, and our founts;
I'll give you accounts of each building,—
How you'll wonder at all my accounts!
THE ANSWER OF THE EGYPTIAN MUMMY.
Come down while the soft winds are sighing!
Come down-oh, you shall and you must!
Come down when the dust-clouds are flying!
Dear mother, come down with the dust!
I STOOD amid the glittering throng,
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
And there I stood confoundedly long,
Like the fine folks whom I stood among,
Fiddle de dec, fiddle de dee.
I stood and stared, and stared and stood,
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
To have seen me stood would have done you good,
For I stood just like a log of wood,
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
And I stood, and I stood till the dawn of day,
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
Then I stood amid the throng so gay;
Yes! I stood till at last-I went away!
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee.
THE ANSWER OF THE EGYPTIAN MUMMY.
Vide Horace Smith's "Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition."
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 rolled away.
Unswathed at length, I stand at ease before ye,—
List, then, oh! list, while I unfold my story.
Thebes was my birthplace-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,
THE ANSWER OF THE EGYPTIAN MUMMY.
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 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 throbbed at tales of love and woe,
These shreds of raven hair once set the fashion,
This withered 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 mauly form,
All bowed at once to Death's mysterious will,
Who sealed me up where mummies sound are sleeping,
In cere-cloth and in tolerable keeping.
Where cows and monkeys squat in rich brocade,
And well-dressed crocodiles in printed cases,
Rats, bats, and owls, and cats in masquerade,
With scarlet flounces, and with varnished faces,
Then, birds, brutes, reptiles, fish, all crammed together,
With ladies that might pass for well-tanned leather.
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