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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?
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played?
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass;
I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Long after thy primeval race was run.
Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world looked 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 Contained no record of its early ages?
Still silent! incommunicative elf!
Art sworn to secresy? then keep thy vows; But prithee 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, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.
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,
The nature of thy private life unfold ;
A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast,
Statue of flesh, Immortal of the dead!
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,
Why should this worthless tegument endure,
In living virtue, that, when both must sever,
I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts un
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime,
So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Ross galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix "-for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is, friends flocking round
Wizard. LOCHIEL! Lochiel! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight: They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of wor, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far! 'Tis thine, oh, Glenullin; whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate; A steed comes at morning: no rider is there, But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall waveCulloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,