For where is he[A]--who lived so long-- Who raised the modern Titan's ghost, And showed his fate, in powerful song, Whose soul for learning's sake was lost? Where he--who backwards to the birth Of Time itself, adventurous trod, And in the mingled mass of earth Found out the handiwork of God?[B] Where he--who in the mortal head,[C] Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace The soul's vast features, that shall tread The stars, when earth is nothingness? Where he--who struck old Albyn's lyre,[D] Till round the world its echoes roll, And swept, with all a prophet's fire, The diapason of the soul? Where he--who read the mystic lore,[E] Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep; And dared presumptuous to explore Secrets four thousand years could keep? Where he--who with a poet's eye[F] Of truth, on lowly nature gazed, And made even sordid Poverty Classic, when in HIS numbers glazed? Where--that old sage so hale and staid,[G] The "greatest good" who sought to find; Who in his garden mused, and made All forms of rule, for all mankind? And thou--whom millions far removed[H] Revered--the hierarch meek and wise, Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved, Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies. He too--the heir of glory--where[I] Hath great Napoleon's scion fled? Ah! glory goes not to an heir! Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead! But hark! a nation sighs! for he,[J] Last of the brave who perilled all To make an infant empire free, Obeys the inevitable call! They go--and with them is a crowd, For human rights who THOUGHT and DID, We rear to them no temples proud, Each hath his mental pyramid. All earth is now their sepulchre, The MIND, their monument sublime-- Young in eternal fame they are-- Such are YOUR triumphs, Death and Time. TO A LADY WHO DECLARED THAT THE SUN PREVENTED HER FROM SLEEPING. BY J. R. DRAKE. Why blame old Sol, who, all on fire, Prints on your lip the burning kiss; Why should he not your charms admire, And dip his beam each morn in bliss? Were't mine to guide o'er paths of light The beam-haired coursers of the sky, I'd stay their course the livelong night To gaze upon thy sleeping eye. Then let the dotard fondly spring, Each rising day, to snatch the prize; 'Twill add new vigour to his wing, And speed his journey through the skies. ADDRESS TO A MUSQUITO. BY EDWARD SANFORD. _His_ voice was ever soft, gentle, and low.--_King Lear._