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THE CLOUD.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet birds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I

pass

in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers

Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,

It struggles and howls at fits ;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The Spirit he loves, remains;
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

While he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack

When the morning-star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

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An eagle alit, one moment may

sit In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest on my airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof

The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and

snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair

Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove,

While the moist earth was laughing þelow.
I am the daughter of the earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores

I change, but I cannot die.

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For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build

ир the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,
I rise and upbuild it again.

Shelley.

ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S

EXHIBITION.

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !)

In Thebes's streets 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 dumby;

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 we should 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 secrets of thy trade-
Then

say, what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunset played ?

ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.

67

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,

Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, 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.
Thou couldst develope, 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, 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, Whilst 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 that dusky cheek have roll’d;
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 quit'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,
The immortal spirit in the skies may

bloom !

Horace Smith.

THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell :-
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell
Did

ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street,
On with the dance ! Let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat,

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Arm! arm! It is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!

Within a window'd niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near.

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