ADDRESS TO A MUMMY. AND hast thou walk'd about, (how strange a story!) When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 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 oath to tell the secrets of thy trade,— Then say what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue which at sunrise 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, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled: Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou couldst develop, 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 greenOr was it then so old, that History's pages Contain'd no record of its early ages? 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 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, And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd, A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, Statue of flesh-Immortal of the dead! Imperishable type of evanescence! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, Why should this worthless tegument endure, In living virtue, that when both must sever, |