be grown.

EXPULSION FROM EGYPT.

The seasons pass, till on their hands they count
Four palms, and to the third, a score and three
In life's meridian how the circles mount
That measure our existence, if there be
No canker worm that clogs the ready wheel;
If care hangs not upon the skirts of time;
And if, like most mankind, we only feel
Its gentle passing, by the hills we climb
In ambling, easy way, and retrospect
Surprises into thought, and we wake up
To feel how swift we journey. We reflect
After reflection barrens of its fruit, the cup
Which we have mixed we drink; if it be gall
We gulp it down the same; we cannot change
The current of our lives, and useless is the call
On any but the hand of God. 'Tis strange
The miracle of life should ever pass
And print no letters deep into the soul!
The years go by, and, but the tuft of grass
More reverent than we, tells o'er our dust its rosary,
in deep green scroll.

MIZRAIM AND LUD.

Near the rim of Karoun, where the pyramids drink the dew that
should dampen the soil;
And the Nilus pours over its green level banks, its annual
freightage of spoil;
Where the date ripens dark to the child of the sun, and the
pomegranate colors for fruit;
The ibis is sounding the damps of the land, and earth in its
plethory mute.

The fat of the fields husks the voice of the morn, while
Demeter is weighing her sheaves;
The lotus has honied its lips for the kiss, "and the turtle
in mockery grieves."
What is that, where the Orient gathers her gold, and the eye
wanders back to the sea?
What cloud on the horizon's breach can be seen? What wakens
the vulture's rude glee?

'Tis the shock of the battle that burdens the air, and the
armies that burden the eye;
They have met (could Elysian give landscape more fair?), have
met to embrace and to die.
The Prophet still lives, and has led to the sun all Egypt; and
gathered as one
The people to hallow the harvest-moon feast, ere the work of
the year is done.

But Mizraim outnumbers the children of Lud, and the shepherd kings,