THE TROUBADOUR. He raised the golden cup from the board, Ladye, to-night I pledge thy name, There are some flowers of brightest bloom Give me those roses, they shall be For ere their colour is wholly gone, The warrior rode forth in the morning light, The maiden stood on her highest tower, All day she watch'd the distant clouds A crucifix upon her neck, And on her lips a prayer. The sun went down, and twilight came And then afar she saw a band Wind down the vale their way. They came like victors, for high o'er their ranks Were their crimson colours borne; And a stranger pennon droop'd beneath, But that was bow'd and torn. But she saw no white steed first in the ranks, But the evening shadows were closing fast, She turn'd from her watch on the lonely tower, And as she sprang down the winding stair, A hundred harps their welcome rung, The ladye entered the hall, and saw HANNIBAL'S OATH. And the night was dark and calm, As the presence of death was there;— Only a moaning sound Came from the distant sea; It was as if, like life, It had no tranquillity. A warrior and a child Pass'd through the sacred wood, Which, like a mystery, Around the temple stood. The warrior's brow was worn With the weight of casque and plume, And sun-burnt was his cheek, And his eye and brow were gloom. The child was young and fair, But the forehead large and high, And the dark eyes' flashing light Seem'd to feel their destiny. They enter'd in the temple, And stood before the shrine; The ground rock'd beneath their feet, There's a page in history O'er which tears of blood were wept, And that page is the record How that oath of hate was kept. THE DESERTER. The muffled drum is rolling, and the low Glanced proudly round. But when they bared his breast He clench'd his hands, and gasp'd, and one deep sob His face awhile,-his mother's look was there. He could not steel his soul when he recall'd The bitterness of her despair. It pass'd- Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy; MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. BY HORACE SMITH. And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !) Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dumby; Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, Tell us for doubtless thon can'st recollect To whom we should assign the Sphinx's fame? Of either Pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by IIomer? Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? 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. I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled, For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou couldst develope, if that withered tongue 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, Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead! Posthumous man, who quit'st thy narrow bed, |