My spirit lives, but strength is gone;
The mountain fires now blaze in vain :
Remember, sons, the deeds I've done,
And in your deeds I'll live again!
When on yon muir our gallant clan
Frae boasting foes their banners tore,
Wha shewed himself a better man,
Or fiercer waved the red claymore?
But when in peace-then mark me there—
When through the glen the wanderer came.
I gave him of our lordly fare.
I gave him here a welcome hame.
The auld will speak, the young maun hear;
Be cantie, but be good and leal;
Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear;
Anither's aye hae heart to feel.
So, ere I set, I'll see you shine,
I'll see you triumph ere I fa';
My parting breath shall boast you mine-
Good night and joy be wi' you a'.
CCLXXXVIII. JOHN LEYDEN, 1775-1811.
Land of my fathers!--though no mangrove here
O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear;
Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot;
Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit;
Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree;---
Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free!
Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot! runs,
With unatonéd blood of Gambia's sons :
No drooping slave, with spirit bow'd to toil,
Grows, like the weed, self-rooted to the soil,
Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads
Is sought and barter'd, as the flock he feeds.
Free as the lark that carols o'er his head,
At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed,
Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care,
And, whistling loud, directs the mining share:
Free as his lord, the peasant treads the plain,
And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain;
Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right,
And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might.
CCLXXXIX. HORACE SMITH, 17**—18**.
ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY.
And thou hast walked 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 played? Perhaps thou wert a priest, and hast been dealing In human blood, and horrors past revealing. Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharoah, glass to glass :
Or dropped a halfpenny 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 or knuckled,
For thou wert dead and buried, and enbalmed,
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 pr'ythee 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 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,
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 thy dusty cheeks 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 quitt'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 for ever ?
Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure
In living virtue; that, when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
Th' immortal spirit in the skies may bloom!
CCXC. JAMES SMITH, 1775—1839.
THE BABY'S DEBUT.
My brother Jack was nine in May,
And I was eight on New Year's day
So in Kate Wilson's shop
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,
And brother Jack a top.
Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,-
He thinks mine came to more than his :
So to my drawer he goes,
Takes out the doll, and, oh my stars!
He pokes her head between the bars,
And melts off half her nose!
Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
And tie it to his peg-top's peg,
And bang, with might and main,
Its head against the parlour door;
Off flies the head, and hits the floor,
And breaks a window pane.
This made him cry with rage and spite:
Well, let him cry, it serves him right.
A pretty thing, forsooth!
If he's to melt, all scalding hot,
Half my doll's nose, and I am not
To draw his peg-top's tooth!
Aunt Hannah heard the window break,
And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake,
Thus to distress your aunt :
No Drury Lane for you to-day!"
And while Papa said, " Pooh, she may!"
Mamma said, "No, she shan't!"
Well, after many a sad reproach,
They got into a hackney coach,
And trotted down the street.
I saw them go: one horse was blind;
The tails of both hung down behind,
Their shoes were on their feet.
The chaise in which poor brother Bill
Used to be drawn to Pentonville,
Stood in the lumber room:
I wiped the dust from off the top,
While Molly mopped it with a mop,
And brushed it with a broom.
My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came in at six to black the shoes
(I always talk to Sam):
So what does he, but takes and drags
Me in the chaise along the flags,
And leaves me where I am?
My father's walls are made of brick,
But not so tall, and not so thick
As these; and, goodness me!
My father's beams are made of wood,
But never, never half so good
As these that now I see.
What a large floor! 'tis like a town!
The carpet, when they lay it down,
Won't hide it, I'll be bound:
And there's a row of lamps;-my eye!
How they do blaze! I wonder why
They keep them on the ground.
At first I caught hold of the wing,
And kept away; but Mr Thing-
Umbob, the prompter man,
Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,
And said," Go on, my pretty love;
Speak to 'em, little Nan.
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