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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 dusty cheek have rolled :-
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 quitt'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 !

BRING BACK THE CHAIN.

BY MRS. NORTON.

It was an aged man, who stood

Beside the blue Atlantic sea ;
They cast his fetters by the flood,

And hailed the time-worn captive free;

From his indignant eye there flashed

A gleam his better nature gave,
And while his tyrants shrank abashed,

Thus spoke the spirit-stricken slave : “Bring back the chain, whose weight so long

These tortured limbs have vainly borne; The word of freedom from your tongue,

My weary ear rejects with scorn! 'Tis true, there was—there was a time,

I sighed, I panted to be free; And, pining for my sunny clime,

Bowed down my stubborn knee. “ Then I have stretched my yearning arms,

And shook in wrath my bitter chain ;Then, when the magic word had charms,

I groaned for liberty in vain ! That freedom ye, at length, bestow,

And bid me bless my envied fate : Ye tell me I am free to go

Where ?-I am desolate ! “The boundless hope — the spring of joy

Felt when the spirit's strength is young ; Which slavery only can alloy,

The mockeries to which I clung ;
The eyes, whose fond and sunny ray,

Made life's dull lamp less dimly burn,
The tones I pined for day by day,-
Can
ye

bid them return ? “Bring back the chain ; its clanking sound

Hath then a power beyond your own ; It brings young visions smiling round,

Too fondly loved— too early flown ! It brings me days when these dim eyes

Gazed o'er the wild and swelling sea, Counting how many suns must rise

Ere one might hail me free !

“Bring back the chain ! that I

may

think
'Tis that which weighs my spirit so;
And, gazing on each galling link,

Dream-as I dreamt-of bitter woe!
My days are gone ;-of hope, of youth,

These traces now alone remain ;
(Hoarded with sorrow's sacred truth)

Tears, and my iron chain !
“Freedom ! though doomed in pain to live,

The freedom of the soul is mine;
But all of slavery you could give

Around my steps must ever twine.
Raise

up

the head which age hath bent: Renew the hopes that childhood gave; Bid all return kind Heaven once lent,

Till then-I am a slave !"

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

BY H. G. BELL.

I LOOKED far back into other years, and lo! in bright array,
I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away.
It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls,
And gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the

footstep falls ; And o'er the antique dial-stones the creeping shadow

passed, And all around the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast. No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister

dim, The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects

please ;

And little recked they when they sang, or knelt at vesper

prayers, That Scotland knew no prouder names-held none more

dear than theirs ; And little even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's

shrine, Of royal blood, and high descent from the ancient Stuart

line;

Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, And as they flew they left behind a long-continuing light.

a

The scene was changed. It was the court—the gay court

of Bourbon And 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers

throng; And proudly kindles Henry's eye-well pleased, I ween,

to see The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry :Grey Montmorency, o'er whose head has passed a storm of

years, Strong in himself and children stands, the first among his

peers ; And next the Guises, who so well fame's steepest heights

assailed, And walked ambition’s diamond ridge, where bravest hearts

have failed And higher yet their path shall be, stronger shall wax their

might, For before them Montmorency's star shall pale its waning

light. Here Louis, Prince of Condé, wears his all-unconquered

sword, With great Coligni by his side-each name a household

word ! And there walks she of Medicis — that proud Italian line, The mother of a race of kings—the haughty Catharine !

The forms that follow in her train, a glorious sunshine

makeA milky way of stars that grace a comet's glittering wake ; But fairer far than all the rest, who bask on fortune's tide, Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride! The homage of a thousand hearts—the fond, deep love of

one

a

The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but

begunThey lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her

cheek, They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy be

speak. Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its

brilliant hours, She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine, and

its flowers ?

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its

way, And o’er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening

lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast-receding hills, that dim and distant rise. No marvel that the lady wept—there was no land on earth She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her

birth ;

It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of

friends It was the land where she had found for all her griefs

amendsThe land where her dead husband slept—the land where

she had known The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendours

of a throne : No marvel that the lady weptit was the land of FranceThe chosen home of chivalry-the garden of romance !

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