Around two conquerors of the world was cast, But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.

For oh, believe not them, who dare to brand,
As poor in charms, the women of this land.
Though darkened by that sun, whose spirit flows
Through every vein, and tinges as it goes,
Tis but the embrowning of the fruit that tells
How rich within the oul of ripeness dwells-
The hue their own dark sanctuaries wear,
Announcing heaven in half-caught glimpses there.
And never yet dil tell-tale looks set free
The secret of young hearts more tenderly.

Such eyes!-long, shadowy, with that languid fall
Of the fring'd lids, which may be seen in all
Who live beneath the sun's too ardent rays-
Lending such looks as, on their marriage days,
Young maids cast down before a bridegroom's gaze!
Then for their grace-mark but the nymph-like shapes
Of the young village girls, when carrying grapes
From green Anthylla, or light urns of flowers-
Not our own Sculpture, in her happiest hours,
E'er imag'd forth, even at the touch of him*
Whose touch was life, more luxury of limb;
Then, canst thou wonder if, 'mid scenes like these,
I should forget all graver mysteries,

All lore but Love's, all secrets but that best
In heaven or earth, the art of being blest!
Yet are there times-though brief, I own, their stay,
Like Summer clouds that shine themselves away-
Moments of gloom, when even these pleasures pall
Upon my sadd'ning heart, and I recall

That Garden dream-that promise of a power-
Oh, were there such!-to lengthen out life's hour,
On, on, as through a vista, far away
Open ing before us into endless day!
And chiefly o'er my spirit did this thought
Come on that evening-bright as ever brought
Light's golden farewell to the world-when first
The eternal pyramids of Memphis burst
Awfully on my sight-standing sublime
"Twixt earth and heaven, the watch-towers of Time,
From whose lone summit, when his reign hath past
From earth for ever, he will look his last!

There hung a calm and solemn sunshine round
Those mighty monuments, a hushing sound
In the still air that circled them, which stole
Like music of past times into my soul.

I thought what myriads of the wise, and brave,
And beautiful, had sunk into the grave,
Since earth first saw these wonders-and I said,
"Are things eternal only for the Dead?
"Hath man no loftier hope than this, which dooms
"His only lasting trophies to be tombs?
"But 'tis not so-earth, heaven, all nature
"He may become immortal-may unclose
"The wings within him wrapt, and proudly 1.se,
"Redeem'd from earth, a creature of the skies!

ow

"And who can say, among the written spells
"From Hermes' hand, that, in these shrines and cells
"Have, from the Flood, lay hid, there may not be
"Some secret clue to immortality,-

"Some amulet, whose spell can keep life's fire
"Awake within us, never to expire!
""Tis known that, on the Emerald Table,† hid
"For ages in yon loftiest pyramid,

"The Thrice-Great‡ did himself, engrave, of old,
"The chymic mystery that gives endless gold.
"And why may not this mightier secret dwell
"Within the same dark chambers? who can tell
"But that those kings, who, by the written skill
"Of the Emerald Table, call'd forth gold at will,
"And quarries upon quarries heap'd and hurl'd,
"To build them domes that might outstand the world-
"Who knows but that the heavenlier art, which shares
"The life of Gods with man, was also theirs

"Unknown on earth, which hath ncr dawn nor night! Else, why those deathless structures? why the grand "And hidden halls, that undermine this land?

Why else hath none of earth e'er dared to go Through the dark windings of that realm below, "Nor aught from heav'n itself, except the God

"Of Silence, through those endless labyrinths trod Thus did I dream-wild, wandering dreams, I own. But such as haunt me ever, it alone,

Or in that pause, 'twixt joy and joy I be,
Like a ship hush'd between two waves at sea.
Then do these spirit whisperings, like the sound
Of the Dark Future, come appalling round;
Nor can I break the trance that holds me then,
Till high o'er Pleasure's surge I mount again!
Even now for new adventure, new delight,
My heart is on the wing;-this very night,
The Temple on that Island, half-way o'er
From Memphis' gardens to the eastern shore,
Sends up its annual rite to her, whose beams
Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams,
The nymph, who dips her urn in silent lakes,
And turns to silvery dew each drop it takes;
Oh, not our Dian of the North, who chains
In vestal ice the current of young veins,
But she who haunts the gay Bubastian || grove,
And owns she sees, from her bright heaven above,
Nothing on earth to match that heaven but Love.
Think, then, what bliss will be abroad to-night!—
Besides those sparkling nymphs, who meet the sight
Day after day, familiar as the sun,

Coy buds of beauty, yet unbreath'd upon,
And all the hidden loveliness, that lies,
Shut up, as are the beams of sleeping eyes,
Within these twilight shrines-to-night shal! be
Let loose, like birds, for this festivity!

And mark, 'tis nigh; already the sun bids
His evening farewell to the Pyramids,
As he hath done, age after age, till they
Alone on earth seem ancient as his ray;

While their great shadows, stretching from the light,
Look light the first colossal steps of Night,
Stretching across the valley, to invade

The distant hills of porphyry with their shade
Around, as signals of the setting beam,

Gay, gilded flags on every house-top gleam:
While, hark!-from all the temples a rich swell
Of music to the Moon-farewell-farewell.

LETTER III

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

THERE is some star-or it may be
That moon we saw so near last night-
Which comes athwart my destiny
For ever, with misleading light.
If for a moinent, pure and wise
And calm I feel, there quick doth fall
A spark from some disturbing eyes,
That through my heart, soul, being flies,
And makes a wildfire of it all.
I've seen-oh, Cleon, that this earth
Should e'er have given such beauty birth!-
That man-but, hold-hear all that pass'd
Since yester-night, from first to last.

The rising of the Moon, calm, slow,
And beautiful, as if she came

The great Festival of the Moon

Memphis

Bubastis, or Isis, was the Diana of the Egyptian mythology

Fresh from the Elysian bowers below,
Was, with a loud and sweet acclaim,
Welcom'd from every breezy height,
Where crowds stod wait g for her liht.
And well might they who view'd the scene
Then lit up all around them, say,
That never yet had Nature been

Caught sleeping in a lovelier ray,
Or rivall'd her own noon-tide face,
With purer show of moonlight grace.

Memphis-still grand, though not the same
Unrivall'd Memphis, that could seize
From ancient Thebes the crown of Fame,
And wear it bright through centuries-
Now, in the moonshine, that came down
Like a last smile upon that crown,-
Memphis, still grand, among her lakes,
Her pyramids and shrines of fire,
Rose, like a vision, that half breaks
On one who, dreaming still, awakes,

To music from some midnight choir:
While to the west-where gradual sinks
In the red sands, from Libya roll'd,
Some mighty column, or fair sphynx,

That stood in kingly courts, of oldIt seem'd as, 'mid the pomp that shone Thus gaily round him, Time look'd on, Waiting till all, now bright and blest, Should sink beneath him like the rest.

No sooner had the setting sun
Proclaim'd the festal rite begun,
And, 'mid their idol's fullest beams,

The Egyptian world was all afloat,
Than I, who live upon these streams,
Like a young Nile-bird, turn'd my boat
To the fair island, on whose shores,
Through leafy palms and sycamores,
Already shone the moving lights
Of pilgrims hastening to the rites.
While far around, like ruoy sparks
Upon the water, lighted barks,

Of every form and kind-from those
That down Svene's cataract shoots,
To the grand, gilded barge, that rows

To tambour's beat and breath of flutes, And wears at night, in words of flame, On the rich prow, its master's name. All were alive, and made this sea

Of cities busy as a hill
Of summer ants, caught suddenly
In the overflowing of a rill.

Landed upon the isle, I soon

Through marble alleys and small groves
Of that mysterious palm she loves,
Reach'd the fair Temple of the Moon;
And there-as slowly through the last
Dim-lighted vestibule I pass'd-
Between the porphyry pillars, twin'd
With palm and ivy, I could see
A band of youthful maidens wind,
In measur'd walk, half dancingly,
Round a small shrine, on which was plac'd

That bird, whose plumes of black and white Wear in their hue, by Nature trac'd

A type of the moon's shadow'd light.

In drapery, like woven snow,

These nymphs were clad; and each, below
The rounded bosom, loosely wore
A dark blue zone, or bandelet,
With little silver stars all o'er,

As are the skies at midnight, set,
While in their tresses, braided through,
Sparkled that flower of Egypt's lakes,
The silvery lotus, in whose hue

As much delight the young Moon takes,

• The Ibis.

As doth the Day-God to behold
The lofty bean-flower's buds of gold.
And, as they gracefully went round

The word hit 'a bir, s me to he bea Of castanets, some to the scuad

Of the shrill sistrum tim'd their feet; While others, at each step they took, A tinkling chain of silver shook

They seem'd all fair-but there was one
On whom the light had not yet shone,
Or shone but partly-so downcast
She held her brow as slow she past.
And yet to me, there seem'd to dwell
A charm about that unseen face-
A something in the shade that fell
Over that brow's imagin'd grace,
Which won me more than all the best
Outshining beauties of the rest.
And her alone my eyes could see,
Enchain'd by this sweet mystery;
And her alone I watch'd, as round
She glided o'er that marble ground,
Stirring not more the unconscious air
Than if a Spirit were moving there.
Fill suddenly, wide open flew
The temple's folding gates, and threw
A splendour from within, a flood

Of glory, where these maiden's stood,
While, with that light-as if the same
Rich source gave birth to both-there came
A swell of harmony, as grand
As e'er was born of voice and hand,
Filling the gorgeous aisles around
With luxury of light and sound.

Then was it, by the flash that blaz'd
Full o'er her features-oh 'twas then,
As startingly her eves she rais'd,

But quick let fall their lids again,

I saw Not Psyche's self, when first
Upon the threshold of the skies
She paus'd, while heaven's glory burst
Newly upon her downcast eyes,
Could look more beautiful, or blush
With holier shame, than did this maid,
Whom now I saw, in all that gush

Of splendour from the aisles, display'd, Never though well thou knowst how muc I've felt the sway of Beauty's starNever did her bright influence touch

My soul into its depths so far; And had that vision linger'd there

One minute more, I should have flown, Forgetful who I was and where,

And, at her feet in worship thrown, Proffer'd my soul through life her own.

But, scarcely had that burst of light
And music broke on ear and sight,
Than up the aisle the bird took wing,
As if on heavenly mission sent,
While after him, with graceful spring,
Like some unearthly creatures, meant
To live in that mix'd element

Of light and song, the young maids went,
And she, who in my heart had thrown
A spark to burn for life, was flown.

In vain I tried to follow ;-bands

Of reverend chanters fill'd the aisle: Where'er I sought to pass, their wands Motion'd me back, while many a file Of sacred nymphs-but ah, not they Whom my eyes lock'd for-throng'd the way Perplex'd, impatient, 'mid this crowd Of faces, lights-the o'erwhelming cloud Of incense round me, and my blood Full of its new born fire-1 stood, Nor mov'd, nor breath'd, but when I caught A glimpse of some blue, spangled zone,

Or wreath of lotus, which, I thought, Like those she wore at distance shone.

But no, 'twas vain-hour after hour,

Till my heart's throbbing turn'd to pain,
And my strain'd eyesight lost its power,
I sought her thus, but all in vain.
At lengtt., hot-wilder'd-in despair,
I rush'd into the cool night-air,

And, hurrying (though with many a look
Back to the busy Temple,) took
My way along the moonlight shore,
And sprung inte my boat once more.

There is a Lake, that to the north
Of Memphis stretches grandly forth,
Up n whose silent shore the Dead

Have a proud City of their own,*
With shrines and pyramids o'erspread-
Where many an ancient kingly head

Slumbers, immortalis'd in stone;

And where, through marble grots beneath,
The lifeless, rang'd like sacred things,
Nor wanting aught of life but breath,
Lie in their painted coverings,
And on each new successive race,

That visit their dim haunts below,
Look with the same unwithering face,

They wore three thousand years ago. There, Silence, thoughtful God, who loves The neighbourhood of death, in groves Of asphodel lies hid, and weaves His hushing spell among the leavesNor ever noise disturbs the air,

Save the low, humming, mournful sound Of priests, within their shrines, at prayer For the fresh Dead entomb'd around

'Twas tow'rd this place of death-in mood Made up of thoughts, half bright, half darkI now across the shining flood

Unconscious turn'd my light wing'd bark. The form of that young maid, in all

Its beauty, was before me still;
And oft I thought, if thus to call

Her image to my mind at will,
If but the memory of that one
Bright look of hers, for ever gone,
Was to my heart worth all the rest
Of woman-kind, beheld, possest-
What would it be, if wholly mine,
Within these arms, as in a shrine,
Hallow'd by Love, I saw her shine-
An idol, worshipp'd by the light
Of her own beauties, day and night-
If 'twas a blessing but to see
And lose again, what would this be?
In thoughts like these-but often crost
By darker threads-my mind was lost,
Till, near that City of the Dead,
Wak'd from my trance, I saw o'erhead-
As if by some enchanter bid

Suddenly from the wave to rise-
Pyramid over pyramid

Tower in succession to the skies;

While one, aspiring, as if soon

"Twould touch the heavens, rose o'er all; And, on its summ", the white moon Rested, as on a pedestal !

The silence of the lonely tombs

And temples round, where nought was heard
But the high palm-trees' tufted plumes,
Shaken, at times, by breeze or bird,
Form'd a deep contrast to the scene
Of revel, where I late had been;

To those gay sounds, that still came o'er,
Faintly, from many a distant shore,
And the unnumber'd lights, that shone

lecropolis, or the City of the Dead, to the south of Memphis

Far o'er the flood, from Memphis on To the Moon's Isle and Babylon.

My oars were lifted, and my boat

Lay rock'd upon the rippling stream;
While my vague thoughts, alike afloat,
Drifted through many an idle dream,
With all of which, wild and unfix'd
As was their aim, that vision mix'd,
That bright nymph of the Temple-now.
With the same innocence of brow

She wore within the lighted fane-
Now kindling, through each pulse and vein,
With passion of such deep-felt fire

As Gods might glory to inspire;-
And now-oh Darkness of the tomb,
That must eclipse even light like hers!
Cold, dead, and blackening, mid the gloom
Of those eternal sepulchres.

Scarce had I turn'd my eyes away

From that dark death-place, at the thought, When by the sound of dashing spray

From a light oar my ear was caught, While past me, through the moonlight, sail d A little gilded bark that bore

Two female figures, closely veil'd

And mantled, towards that funeral shor They landed-and the boat again

Put off across the watery plain.

Shall I confess to thee I may

That never yet hath come the chance

Of a new music, a new ray

From woman's voice, from woman's gla Which-let it find me how it might,

In joy or grief-I did not bless, And wander after, as a light

Leading to undreamt happiness. And chiefly now, when hopes so vain Were stirring in my heart and brain, When fancy had allur'd my soul

Into a chase, as vague and far As would be his, who fix'd his goal In the horizon, or some starAny bewilderment, that brought More near to earth my high-flown though The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure, Less high and heavenly, but more sure, Came welcome-and was then to me What the first flowery isle must be To vagrant birds blown out to sea.

Quick to the shore I urg'd my bark,

And, by the bursts of moonlight, shed Between the lofty tombs, could mark Those figures, as with hasty tread They glided on-till in the shade

Of a small pyramid, which through Some boughs of palm its peak display'd, They vanish'd instant from my view

I hurried to the spot-no trace
Of life was in that lonely place;
And, had the creed I hold by taught
Of other worlds, I might have thought
Some mocking spirits had from thence
Come in this guise to cheat my sense.

At length exploring darkly round
The Pyramid's smooth sides, I found
An iron portal-opening high

"Twixt peak and base-and, with a prayer
To the bliss-loving Moon, whose eye
Alone beheld me, sprung in there.
Downward the narrow stairway led
Through many a duct obscure and dread,
A labyrinth for mystery made,
With wanderings onward, backward, round,
And gathering still, where'er it wound,
But deeper density of shade.

Through which I now, all hope, descended.
Never did Spartan to his bride
With warier foot at midnight glide.
It seem'd as echo's self were dead
In this dark place, so mute my tread.
Reaching, at length, that light, I saw-
Oh listen to the scene, now rais'd
Before my eyes-then guess the awe,

The still, rapt awe with which I gaz'd
Twas a small chapel, lin'd around
With the fair, spangling marble found
In many a ruin'd shrine that stands
Half seen above the Libyan sands.
The walls were richly sculptur'd o'er,
And character'd with that dark lore,
Of times before the Flood, whose key
Was lost in the Universal Sea."-
While on the roof was pictur'd bright

The Theban beetle, as he shines,
When the Nile's mighty flow declines,
And forth the creature springs to light,
With life regenerate in his wings:--
Emblem of vain imaginings!
Of a new world, when this is gone,
In which the spirit still lives on!

Direct beneath this type, reclin'd
On a black granite altar, lay
A female form, in crystal shrin'd,
And looking fresh as if the ray
Of soul had fled but yesterday.
While in relief, of silv'ry hne,

Grav'd on the altar's front were seen A branch of lotus, broken in two,

As that fair creature's life had been, And a small bird that from its spray Was winging, like her soul, away.

But brief the glimpse I now could spare, To the wild, mystic wonders round; For there was yet one wonder there,

That held me as by witch'ry bound. The lamp, that through the chamber shed Its vivid beam, was at the head Of her who on that altar slept;

And near it stood, when first I cameBending her brow, as if she kept

Sad watch upon its silent flameA female form, as yet so plac'd

Between the lamp's strong glow and me, That I but saw, in outline trac'd,

The shadow of her symmetry.
Yet did my heart-I scarce knew why-
Even at that shadow'd shape beat high.
Nor was it long, ere full in sight

The figure turn'd; and by the light
That touch'd her features, as she bent

Over the crystal monument,

I saw 'twas she-the same-the sameThat lately stood before me, bright'ning The holy spot, where she but came

And went again, like summer lightning

Upon the crystal, o'er the breast
Of her who took that silent rest,
There was a cross of silver lying-

Another type of that blest home,
Which hope, and pride, and fear of dying
Build for us in a world to come :-
This silver cross the maiden rais'd
To her pure lips :-then, having gaz'd
Some minutes on that tranquil face,
Sleeping in all death's mournful grace,
Upward she turn'd her brow serene,

As if, intent on heaven, those eyes Saw then nor roof nor cloud between

Their own pure orbits and the skies. And, though her lips no motion made, And that fix'd look was all her speech, I saw that the rapt spirit pray'd

Deeper within than words could reach

Strange power of Innocence, to turn

To its own hue whate'er comes near, And make even vagrant passion burn

With purer warmth within its sphere! She who, but one short hour before,

Had come, like sudden wild-fire, o'er
My heart and brain-whom gladly, even
From that bright Temple, in the face
Of those proud ministers of heaven,

I would have borne, in wild embrace,
And risk'd all punishment, divine
And human, but to make her mine;-
She, she was now before me, thrown
By fate itself into my arms-
There standing, beautiful, alone,

With nought to guard her, but her charme Yet did I, then-did even a breath

From my parch'd lips, too parch'd to move,
Disturb a scene where thus, beneath
Earth's silent covering, Youth and Death

Held converse through undying love?
No-smile and taunt me as thou wilt-
Though but to gaze thus was delight,
Yet seem'd it like a wrong, a guilt,
To win by stealth so pure a sight:
And rather than a look profane

Should then have met those thoughtful eyes,
Or voice or whisper broke the chain
That link'd her spirit with the skies,

I would have gladly, in that place,

From which I watch'd her heavenward face,
Let my heart break, without one beat
That could disturb a prayer so sweet.
Gently, as if on every tread,

My life, my more than life, depended,
Back through the corridor that led

To this blest scene I now ascended, And with slow seeking, and some pain, And many a winding tried in vain, Emerg'd to upper air again.

The peak of that eternal pile

He pauses still at noon to bless, Standing beneath his downward smile, Like a great Spirit, shadowless!— Nor yet she comes-while here, alone, Saunt'ring through this death-peopled place, Where no heart beats except my own, Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown, By turns I watch, and rest, and trace These lines, that are to waft to thee My last night's wondrous history.

Dest thou remember, in that Isle

Of our own Sea, where thou and I Linger'd so long, so happy a while,

'Till all the summer flowers went byHow gay it was, when sunset brought

To the cool Well ou favourite maidsSome we had won, and some we soughtTo dance within the fragrant shades, And, till the stars went down attune Their Fountain Hymns to the young moon?

That time, too-oh, 'tis linc & dream—
When from Scamander's holy tide

I sprung as Genius of the Stream,

And bore away that blooming bride, Who thither came, to yield her charms

(As Phrygian maids are wont, ere wed) Into the cold Scamander's arms,

But met, and welcom'd mine, instead-
Wondering, as on my neck she fell,
How river-gods could love so well!

Who would have thought that he, who rov'd
Like the first bees of summer then,
Rifling each sweet, nor ever lov'd

But the free hearts, that lov'd again,
Readily as the reed replies

To the least breath that round it sighs-
Is the same dreamer wno, last night,
Stood aw'd and breathless at the sight
Of one Egyptian girl; and now
Wanders among these tombs, with brow
Pale, watchful, sad, as though he just,
Himself, had risen from out their dust!

Yet so it is-and the same thirst

For something high and pure, above
This withering world, which, from the first,
Made me drink deep of woman's love-
As the one joy, to heaven most near
Of all our hearts can meet with here-
Still burns me up, still keeps awake
A fever nought but death can slake.

Farewell; Whatever may befall-
Or bright, or dark-thoul't know it all.

LETTER IV.

FROM ONE, MIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO DECIUS,
THE PRETORIAN PREFECT.

REJOICE, my friend, rejoice:—the youthful Chief
Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief,
And, gay and godless, makes the present hour
Its only heaven, is now within our power.
Smooth, impious school!-not all the weapons aim'd
At priestly creeds, since first a creed was fram'd,
Eer struck so deep as that sly dart they wield,

The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers conceal' :.
And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet
As any thou can'st boast-even when the feet

O thy proud war-steed wade through Christian blood,
To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood,
And bring him, tam'd and prostrate, to implore
The vilest gods even Egypt's saints adore.

These songs of the Well, as they were called by the ancions, are all common in the Greek isles.

What!-do these sages think, to them alone
The key of this world's happiness is known?
That none but they, who make such proud parade
Of Pleasure's smiling favours, win the maid,
Or that Religion keeps no secret place,

No niche, in her dark fanes, for Love to grace
Fools!-did they know how keen the zest that's given
To earthly joy, when season'd well with heaven;
How Piety's grave mask improves the hue
Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen through,
And how the Priest, set aptly within reach
Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each,
Would they not, Decius-thou, whom the ancient tie
Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally-
Would they not change their creed, their craft, for ours
Leave the gross daylight joys that, in their bowers,
Languish with too much sun, like o'erblown flowers,
For the veil'd loves, the blisses undisplay'd
That slily lurk within the Temple's shade?
And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school→→
Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule,
Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide,
Till Pleasure's self is chill'd by Wisdom's pride-
Be taught by us, quit shadows for the true,
Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue,
Who far too wise to theorise on bliss,
Or Pleasure's substance for its shade to miss,
Preach other worlds, but live for only this
Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us Aung,
Which, like its type, the golden cloud that hung
O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign,
Round human frailty wraps a veil divine.

Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they
Alone despise the craft of us who pray ;-

Still less their creedless vanity deceive
With the fond thought, that we who pray oelieve.
Believe-Apis forbid-forbid it, all

Ye monster Gods, before whose shrines we all-
Deities, fram'd in jest, as if to try

How far gross Man can vulgarise the sky;
How far the same low fancy that combines
Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs,
And turns that Heaven itself into a place
Of sainted sin and deified disgrace,

Can bring Olympus even to shame more deep,
Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap,
Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood,
Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food-
All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees
In dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities!

Believe!-oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no care
For things divine, beyond the soldier's share,
Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds,
A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs-
Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs
Loose as thy summer war-cloak, guess the pangs
Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart,
Stubborn as mine is, acts the zealot's part-
The deep and dire disgust with which I wade
Through the foul juggling of this holy trade-
This mud profound of mystery, where the feet,
At every step, sinks deeper in deceit.

Oh many a time, when 'mid the Temple's blaze
O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise,
Did I not keep stili proudly in my mind
The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind-
A lever, of more might, in skilful hand,
To move this world, than Archimede ejer plann'd-
I should, in vengeance of the shame I feel
At my own mockery, crush the slaves that kneel
Besotted round; and-like that kindred breed
Of reverend, wolf-drest crocodiles they feed,
At fam'd Arsinoët--make my keepers bless,
With their last thr, my sharp-fang'd Holiness.

Say, is it to be borne, that scoffers, vain

Of their own freedom from the altar's chain,

For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were mented, see the Epicurean, chap. x