THE VILLAGE CHURCH. AND is our country's father fled, His car of fire can none recall? Be-here-his sacred spirit shed, Here-may his prophet mantle fall. Fain would I fill the vacant breach, Stand where he stood the plague to stay; In his prophetic spirit preach, And in his hallowed accents pray. It is not that on seraph's wing, I hope to soar where he has soared ;— This is the only claim I bring, I love his church, I love his Lord. I love the altar of my sires, Firm as my country's rocks of steel; I love to know that, not alone, See, here, the seal of saints impressed! The prayers of millions swell my voice; The mind of ages fills my breast. I love the ivy-mantled tower, Rocked by the storms of thousand years; The Grave, whose melancholy flower Was nourished by a martyr's tears, The sacred Yew, so feared in war, Which, like the sword to David given, Inflicted not a human scar, But lent to man the arms of heaven. I love the organ's joyous swell,— Faint emblem of he call of God. And hear the still small voice of peace. And, as the ray of evening fades, I love amidst the dead to stand, Where, in the chancel's deepening shades, I seem to meet the ghostly band. One comes;-Oh! mark his sparkling eye! I knew his faith, his strong endeavour; Another-Ah! I hear him sigh, Alas! and is he gone for ever! Another treads the shadowy aisle, I know him 'tis my sainted sire ;I know his patient angel smile, His shepherd voice, his eye of fire!— His ashes rest in yonder urn ;— I saw his death;-I closed his eye;Bright sparks amidst those ashes burn, That death has taught me how to die. Long be our Father's temple ours,- The rampart of a present God' Manchester Exchange Herald. ADDRESS TO THE EGYPTIAN MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. BY HORACE SMITH, ESQ. AND thou hast walked about-how strange a story!— Speak, for thou long enough hast acted Dummy! Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect, To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops, or Cephrenés 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-if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat; Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass : Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou could'st develope, if that withered tongue Still silent! Incommunicative elf! Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; But, prythee, 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 numbered? 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, And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, A heart hath throbbed beneath that leathern breast, Statue of flesh!-Immortal of the dead! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, Why should this worthless tegument endure, O let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue, that when both must sever, -Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. New Monthly Magazine. THE FORSAKEN HEART. My heart is like a lonely lyre, And thou art as the careless fingers, Which tore those tuneless strings away; The world, the senseless world remembers, Its tears have steeped the cold, cold embers; Literary Gazette. |