WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the
of woe,
pomp
And storied urns record who rest below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend ;
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in Heaven the soul he held on earth.
While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven;
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh Manthou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit,
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye who behold perchance this simple urn,
Pass on, it honours none you wish to mourn;
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise,
I never knew but one-and here he lies.
TRIUMPHANT arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud philosophy
To teach me what thou art.
Still seem as to my chilhood's sight,
A midway station given,
For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that optics teach unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dream of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?
When science from creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey fathers forth To watch the sacred sign?
And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first made anthem rang,
On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first Poet sang.
Nor ever shall the muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme.
ON THE EGYPTIAN TOMB.
POMP of Egypt's elder day,
Shade of the mighty pass'd away,
(Whose giant works still frown sublime
'Mid the twilight shades of time ;)
Fanes of sculpture vast and rude,
That strew the sandy solitude,
Lo! before our startled eyes,
As at a wizard's wand, ye rise,
Glimm'ring larger through the gloom!
While on the secrets of the tomb,
Wrapt in other times, we gaze,
The Mother-Queen of ancient days,
Her mystic symbol in her hand,
Great ISIS seems herself to stand.
From mazy vaults, high-arch'd and dim,
Hark! heard ye not Osiris' hymn?
And saw ye not, in order dread,
The long procession of the dead?
Forms that the night of years conceal'd,
As by a flash, are here reveal'd;
Chiefs, who sung the victor song,
Scepter'd kings, a shadowy throng!
From slumber of three thousand years,
Each as in life and light appears,
Stern as of yore! yes, vision vast,
Three thousand years have silent pass'd,
Suns of empire risen and set,
(Whose story time can ne'er forget,)
Since, in the morning of her pride,
Immense, along the Nile's green side,
The City of the Sun appear'd,
And her gigantic image rear'd.
As her own Memnon, like a trembling string, When the sun, with rising ray,
Streak'd the lonely desert gray,
Sent forth its magic murmuring,
That just was heard, then died away;
So pass'd, O Thebes! thy morning pride,
Thy glory was the sound that died!
Phantom of that city old,
Whose mystic spoils we now behold,
A kingdom's sepulchre-oh say,
Shall Albion's own illustrious day,
Thus darkly, close? her power, her fame,
Thus pass away, a shade, a name!
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