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But he from whom nor pyramids nor sphynx

Can hide its secrecies, Belzoni came; From the tomb's mouth unlink'd the granite links,

Gave thee again to light, and life, and fame, And brought thee from the sands and deserts forth, To charm the pallid children of the north! Thou art in London, which, when thou wert new,

Was what Thebes is, a wilderness and waste, Where savage beasts more savage men pursue;

A scene by nature cursed, -by man disgraced. Now—'t is the world's metropolis !—The high Queen of arms, learning, arts, and luxury ! Here, where I hold my hand, 't is strange to think

What other hands, perchance, preceded mine; Others have also stood beside thy brink,

And vainly conn’d the moralizing line! Kings, sages, chiefs, that touch'd this stone, like me, Where are ye now ?—Where all must shortly be. All is mutation ;-he within this stone

Was once the greatest monarch of the hour. His bones are dust—his very name unknown!

Go, learn from him the vanity of power ; Seek not the frame's corruption to control, But build a lasting mansion for thy soul.

HORACE SMITH.

PRAYER.
LIKE the low murmur of the secret stream,

Which through dark alders winds its shaded way, My suppliant voice is heard ;-Ah! do not deem

That on vain toys I throw my hours away. In the recesses of the forest vale,

On the wild mountain, on the verdant sod, Where the fresh breezes of the morn prevail,

I wander lonely, communing witlu God.

When the faint sickness of a wounded heart
Creeps in cold shudderings through my sinking

frame,
I turn to thee,—that holy peace impart,

Which soothes the invokers of thy awful name. O all-pervading Spirit! sacred beam!

Parent of life and light! Eternal Power! Grant me through obvious clouds one transient gleam Of thy bright essence in my dying hour!

W. BECKFORD.

HYMN ON THE FALL OF JERUSALEM.
Even thus amid thy pride and luxury,
Oh earth! shall that last coming burst on thee,

That secret coming of the Son of Man,
When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine,
Irradiate with his bright advancing sign ;

When that Great Husbandman shall wave his fan, Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and poinp away: Still to the noontide of that nightless day

Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. Along the busy mart and crowded street, The buyer and the seller still shall meet,

And marriage feasts begin their jocund strain;
Still to the pouring out the cup of woe :
Till earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro,
And mountains molted by his burning feet,
And heaven his presence own, all red with furnace

heat.
The hundred-gated cities then,
The towers and temples, named of men

Eternal, and the thrones of kings,
The gilded summer palaces,
The courtly bowers of love and ease,

Where still the bird of pleasure sings ;
„Ask ye the destiny of them ?
Go gaze on fallen Jerusalem!

Yea, mightier names are the fatal roll,

'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfurl'd, The skies are shrivellid like a burning scroll, And the vast common doom ensepulchre's the

world.
Oh! who shall then survive?

Oh! who shall stand and live ?
When all that hath been is no more :

When for the round earth hung in air,
With all its constellations fair

In the sky's azure canopy ;
When for the breathing earth and sparkling sea,

Is but a fiery deluge without shore,
Heaving along the abyss profound and dark

A fiery deluge, and without an ark.
Lord of all power, when thou art there alone
On thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne,

That in its high meridian noon

Needs not the perish'd sun nor moon; When thou art there in thy presiding state,

Wide-sceptred Monarch o'er the realms of doom; When from the sea-depths, from earth's darkest

womb, The dead of all the ages round thee wait! And when the tribes of wickedness are strewn

Like forest-leaves in the autumn of thine ire ; Faithful and true! thou still wilt save thine own!

The saints shall dwell within the unharming fire, Each white robe spotless, blooming every palm.

Even safe as we, by this still fountain's side, So shall the church, thy bright and mystic bride, Sit on the stormy gulf, a halcyon bird of calm.

Yes, 'mid yon angry and destroying signs,

O'er us the rainbow of thy mercy shines, We hail, we bless the covenant of its beam, Almighty to avenge, Almighty to redeem!

MILMAN.

A REFLECTION AT SEA.
SEE how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,

Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for a while,

And murmuring then subsides to rest.
Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,

Rises on Time's eventful sea;
And, having swell’d a moment there,
Thus melts into eternity!

MOORE.

ROBIN HOOD.
No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves for many years :
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more ;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill ;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed to hear
Jesting deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you ;
Or the polar ray to right you ;

grene shaw!"

But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze :
He would swear for all his oaks,
Fallen be seath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas :
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her. Strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!
So it is, yet let us sing,
Honour to the cld bow-string !
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen !
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood :
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have hurried by,
Let us two a burden try.

KEATS.

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