ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY AT BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.

Anonymous.

AND thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes' 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 Dummy,---
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 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

By oaths to tell the mysteries of thy trade,→→ Then say what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sun-rise play'd. Perhaps thou wert a priest-if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,
Has hob-a-nob'd with Pharaoh, glass to glass;
Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doff'd thine own, to let Queen Dido pass;
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd,
Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled,
For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalm'd,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled;—
Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou could'st develope, if that wither'd tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,
How the world look'd 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
Contain'd no record of its early ages?

Still silent, incommunicative elf?

Art sworn to secresy? then keep thy vows; But pr'ythee, tell us something of thyself,

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house!

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumber'd,

What hast thou seen ?—what strange adventures number'd ?

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, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,

When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, March'd 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 confess'd,
The nature of thy private life unfold :-
A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,

:

And tears adown that dusty cheek have roll'd :— Have children climb'd those knees, and kiss'd 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 undecay'd 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?

O let us keep the soul embalm'd and pure

In living virtue, that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.

SATURDAY.

Anonymous

IN glowing terms I would this day indite-
Its morn, its noon, its afternoon and night;
The busiest day throughout the week-the latter day:
A day whereon odd matters are made even :
The dirtiest-cleanest too-of all the seven;
The scouring pail, pan, plate, and platter day!
A day of general note and notability;
A plague to gentlefolks

And prime gentility,

E'en to the highest ranks- nobility!
And yet a day (barring all jokes)
Of great utility,

Both to the rich as well as the mobility!

A day of din-of clack- -a clatter day;
For all, howe'er they mince the matter, say
This day they dread;

A day with hippish, feverish frenzy fed,
Is that grand day of fuss and bustle-Saturday!

THE WATER FIENDS.

On a wild moor, all brown and bleak,
Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,

There stood a tenement antique

Lord Hoppergollop's country house.

Colman.

Here silence reign'd, with lips of glue,

And undisturb'd maintain'd her law,

Save when the owl cried "whoo! whoo! whoo!" Or the hoarse crow croak'd "caw! caw! caw!"

Neglected mansion!-for, 'tis said,

Whene'er the snow came feathering down, Four barbed steeds, from the Bull's Head, Carried thy master up to town.

Weak Hoppergollop!-Lords may moan,
Who stake, in London, their estate,
On two small, rattling bits of bone,
On little figure, or on great.

Swift whirl the wheels-He's gone—A rose
Remains behind, whose virgin look,
Unseen, must blush in wintry snows;
Sweet, beauteous blossom!-'twas the cook.

A bolder far than my weak note,

Maid of the Moor, thy charms demand:
Eels might be proud to lose their coat,
If skinn'd by Molly Dumpling's hand!

Long had the fair one sat alone,

Had none remain'd save only she;
She by herself had been-if one
Had not been left, for company.

'Twas a tall youth, whose cheek's clear hue
Was tinged with health and manly toil;
Cabbage he sow'd, and when it grew-
He always cut it off to boil.