which, the Pyramids stand. It completely dispels the involuntary notion that one has formed of the solitary abruptness of the Three Pyramids. Not to speak of the groups, in the distance, of Abou-Sir, Takara, and Dashur—the whole platform of this greatest of them all, is a maze of pyramids and tombs. Three little ones stand beside the first, three also beside the third. The second and third are each surrounded by traces of square enclosures, and their eastern faces are approached through enormous masses of ruins, as if of some great temple; whilst the first is enclosed on three sides by long rows of massive tombs, on which you look down from the top as on the plats of a stone-garden. You see, in short, that it is the most sacred and frequented part of that vast cemetery which extends all along the western ridge for twenty miles behind Memphis.

It is only by going round the whole place in detail that the contrast between its present and its ancient state is disclosed. One is inclined to imagine that the Pyramids are immutable, and that such as you see them now, such they were always. Of distant views this is true; but taking them near at hand, it is more easy from the existing ruins to conceive Karnac as it was, than it is to conceive the pyramidal platform as it was. The smooth casing of part of the top of the second pyramid, and the magnificent granite blocks which form the lower stages of the third, serve to show what they must have been all, from top to bottom; the first and second brilliant white or yellow limestone, smooth from top to bottom, instead of those rude disjointed masses which their stripped sides now present; the third, all glowing with the red granite from the First Cataract. As it is, they have the barbarous look of Stonehenge; but then they must have shone with the polish of an age already rich with civilization ; and that the more remarkab e when it is remembered that these granite blocks, which furnished the outside of the third and inside of the first, must have come all the way from the First Cataract. It also seems, from Herodotus and others, that these smooth outside3 were covered with sculptures. Then you must build up or uncover the massive tombs, now broken or choked with sand, so as to restore the aspect of vast streets of tombs, like those on the Appian Way, out of which the Great Pyramid would rise like a cathedral above smaller churches. Lastly, you must enclose the two other pyramids with stone precincts and gigantic gateways, and above all you must restore the Sphinx, as he (for it must never be forgotten that a female Sphinx was almost unknown) was in the days of his glory.

Even now, after all that we have seen of colossal statues, there was something stupendous in the sight of that enormous head—its vast projecting wig, its great ears, its open eyes, the red colour still visible on its cheek, the immense projection of the whole lower part of its face. Yet, what must it have been when on its head there was the royal helmet of Egypt; on its chin the royal beard; when the stone pavement, by which men approached the pyramids, ran up between its paws; when immediately under its' breast an altar stood, from which the smoke went up into the gigantic nostrils of that nose, now vanished from the face, never to be conceived again! All this is known with certainty from the remains which actually exist deep under the sand on which you stand, as you look up from a distance into the. broken but still expressive features.

Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight!

The owl hath his share of good;
If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,

He is lord in the dark green wood!
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate,

They are each unto each a pride;
Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside!

So when the night falls, and dogs do howl,
Sing Ho! for the reign of the horned owl!
We know not alway who are kings by day,

But the king of the night is the bold brown owl.

Barry Cornwall.


"And he buried him ln a valley in the land of Moab, over against Bethpeor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." —Deut. xxxiv. 6.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,

There lies a lonely grave.
But no man dug that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er,
For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,

Or saw the train go forth.
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun. . . . ,

Noiselessly ns the spring-timo

Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills

Open their thousand leaves;
So, without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain's crown

The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle

On grey Bethpeor's height, Out of his rocky eirie,

Looked on the wondrous sight.
Perchance the lion stalking

Still shuns that sacred spot;
For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drum,

Follow the funeral car.
They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his masterless steed,

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

Men lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honoured place

With costly marble drest,
In the great Minster transept.

Where lights like glories fall,
And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings

Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior

That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher

Traced with his golden pen,
On the deathless page truths half so sage,

As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honour?

The hill-side for his pall,
To lie in state while angels wait,

With stars for tapers tall;
And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,
And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave.

In that deep grave without a name,

Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again, most wondrous thought!

Before the judgment day;
And stand, with glory wrapped around,

On the hills he never trod,
And speak of the strife that won our life

With th' incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land!

O dark Bethpeor's hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,

And teach them to be still.
God hath His mysteries of grace,

Ways that we cannot tell;
He hides them deep, like the secret sleep

Of him He loved so well.—Dublin Univ. Mag.

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