Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy ; 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, 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, In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass; I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou couldst develop, 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, Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, 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! Posthumous man, who quit'st thy narrow bed, Why should this worthless tegument endure, O, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure LESSON CLI. Hymn to the Flowers. HORACE SMITH. DAY-STARS, that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle, Ye matin worshippers, who, bending lowly Ye bright mosaics, that with storied beauty What numerous emblems of instructive duty 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth, Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Which God hath planned, To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds and waves; its organ thunder; Its dome the sky. Through the lone aisles, or, stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers; Floral apostles, that in dewy splendor Weep without sin and blush without a crime, O, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender Your love sublime! "Thou wast not, Solomon, in all thy glory, In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist, With which thou paintest nature's wide-spread hall What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all! Not useless are ye, flowers, though made for pleasure, Blooming o'er fields and wave by day and night; From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages, what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a "memento mori," — Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories, angel-like collection, And second birth. Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining, LESSON CLII. A Song for St. Cecilia's Day. DRYDER FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony, When Nature underneath a heap |