March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, A heart has throbb'd 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, O let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue; that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, Th' immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. THE END. |