Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshow'r'd grass with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worship'd ark.

Beside him, stretched in its open sarcophagus which rested on three brazen trestles, lay the mummy of an ancient Memphian, from the upper part of which the brown cerements had rotted or been rent, leaving the hideousness of the naked, grinning countenance exposed to view.

He flourished some five centuries before the Messiah, was a Memphian priest of Amsu, and, as the hieroglyphics on his coffin assure me, a prime favourite with one Queen Amyntas.

Blest in Memphian bow'rs serene, Raise high the lash, and Chloe's be, All e'er proud Chloe dealt to me!

Hath vexed the Red Sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew Busiris and his Memphian chivalry.

Tranced in her Lord's Olympian smile His lotus-loving Memphian lies, The musky daughter of the Nile With plaited hair and almond eyes.