If so, at any pain or cost, Oh, tell me before all is lost! Look deeper still: if thou canst feel, That thou hast kept a portion back, Is there within thy heart a need Lives there within thy nature hid On all things new and strange? But shield my heart against thine own. Could'st thou withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim, That fate, and that to-day's mistake, Not thou,-had been to blame? Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou Wilt surely warn and save me now. Nay, answer not,-I dare not hear, The words would come too late; ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY AT BELZONI'S EXHIBI TION.-HORACE SMITH. AND thou hast walked about, (how strange a story!) When the Memuonium was in all its glory, Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy; 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 fobidden By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade, Then say what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at suurise played? Perhaps thou wert a priest,-if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggies. Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat, Or dofled thine own to let Queen Dido pass; I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou could'st develop- if that withered tongue Still silent! incommunicative elf! Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; But prithee 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 num bered? Since first thy form was in this box extended We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations; New worlds have risen,-we have lost old nations; 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, Statue of flesh,-immortal of the dead! Posthumous man, who quit'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence! Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, Why should this worthless tegument endure, ANSWER OF THE MUMMY AT BELZONI'S EXHIBI TION. CHILD of the later days! thy words have broken A spell that long has bound these lungs of clay,— Thebes was my birthplace-an unrivalled city Oh, I could read you quite a Theban lecture, But then yon would not have me throw discredit But heard it read when I was very young. 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 truth a lofty figure. Now look at me,-and tell me,-am I bigger? Not half the size, but then I'm sadly dwindled; For this lean hand did one day hurl the lance This heart has 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 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 cerecloth and in tolerable keeping ; Where cows and monkeys squat in rich brocade, With scarlet flounces, and with varnished faces; Then birds, brutes, reptiles, fish, all crammed together, With ladies that might pass for well-tanned leather; Where Rameses and Sabacon lie down, And splendid Psammis in his hide of crust, Who in their day kicked up a mighty dust, Who'd think these rusty hams of mine were seated And ever and anon the Queen turned pale. Ay, gaslights! Mock me not,—we men of yore Her patient toil, acuteness of invention? A land in arts and sciences prolific, Oh block gigantic, building up her fame, How, when, and why our people came to rear Well, then, in grievous times, when King Cêphrenes, |