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| I ask'd him, What is time? “Time,” he

replied, YOUNG.

“ I've lost it, Ah the treasure !” and he died ! Tive in advance, behind him hides his

I ask'd the golden sun and silver spheres, And seems to creep, decrepit with his age; | Those bright chronometers of days and years; Behold him when pass'd by; what then is They answer'd, “Time is but a meteor's seen

But his broad pinions swifter than the wind? And bade me for Eternity prepare.
And all mankind, in contradiction strong,
Rueful, aghast! cry out at his career. I ask'd the seasons, in their annual round

Which beautify, or desolate the gronnd;
And they replied (no oracle more wise,).

“ 'Tis folly's blank, and wisdom's highest WHAT IS TIME?



I ask'd a spirit lost, but, О the shriek I ask'd an aged man, a man of cares, That pierced my soul! I shudder while I Wrinkled, and curv'd, and white with hoary1 speak! hairs;

It cried, “ A particle! a speck! a mite “ Time is the warp of life,” he said, “ O tell | Of endless years, duration infinite ! The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well !”

Of things inanimate, my dial I

Consulted, and it made me this reply, I ask'd the ancient venerable dead,

« Time is the season fair of living well, Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled; The path to Glory, or the path to Hell.” From the cold grave a hollow murmur flow'd,

I ask'd my Bible, and methinks it said, “ Time sow'd the seeds we reap in this “Thine is the present hour, the past is fled; abode !"

Live! live to-day! tomorrow never yet,

On any human being, rose or set !" I ask'd a dying sinner, ere the stroke Of ruthless death life's “golden bowl had I ask'd old father Time himself at last; broke;'

But in a moment he flew swiftly past;

His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind | To blot old books, and alter their contents, His noiseless steeds, that left no trace behind. To pluck the quills from ancient raven:

wings, I ask'd the mighty Angel, who shall stand To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs, One foot on sea, and one on solid land;

To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel, “ By heav'ns, great King, I swear the mys- ! And turn the giddy round of fortune's tery's o'er !

wheel. Time was,he cried,-“ but Time shall be

no more !!




SAD city of the silent place!

Queen of the dreary wilderness,
On all-iinportant time from every age, | No voice of life, no passing sound
Though, much, and warm, the wise have Disturbs thy dreadful calm around ;
urg'd, the man

Save the wild desert-dweller's roar, Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour. Which tells the reign of man is o'er, " I've lost a day—the prince who nobly Or winds that thro' thy portal sigh cried,

Upon their night-course flitting by!
Had been an emperor without his crown;
Of Rome ? say rather, lord of human race :

ather, lord of human race: | The eternal ruins frowning stand,
He spoke, as if deputed by mankind. Like giant-spectres of the land ;
So should all speak : so reason speaks in all : | Or o'er the dead like mourners hang,
From the soft whispers of that God in man, Bent down by speechless sorrow's pang ;
Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly, What time, and space, and loneliness,
For rescue from the blessing we possess ! All, o'er the sadden'd spirit press,
Time the supreme ;--Time is eternity ; Around in leaden slumbers lie
Pregnant with all eternity can give; The dread wastes of infinity,
Pregnant with all, that makes archangels Where not a gentle hill doth swell,

Where not a hermit shrub doth dwell; Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth And where the song of wandering flood A power ethereal, only not adored.

Ne'er voiced the fearful solitude.


How sweetly sad our pensive tears
Flow o'er each broken arch that rears

Its grey head through the mists of years !

And where are now the dreams of Fame,

'The promise of a deathless name? SHAKSPEARE.

Alas! the deep delusion's gone?
TIME's glory is to calm contending Kings, | And all, except the mouldering stone,
E. To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light, The wreath that deck'd the victor's hair,

To stamp the seal of time on aged things Hath, like his glory, withered there:
To wake the morn, and sentinel the night, And Time's immortal garlands twine
To wrong the wronger till he render right; O'er desolation's mournful shrine,

To ruinate proud buildings with his hours, Like youth's embrace around decline.

And smear with dust their glittering golden * towers !

O'er Beauty's dark and desert bed

Ages of dreamless sleep have fled, To fill with worm-holes stately monuments And in the domes where once she smiled, To feed oblivion with decay of things, | The whispering weeds are waving wild;

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And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,

To the dash of the waves in their foaming THE FATE OF EMPIRES.

glee, ANON.

As they break into spray on the ship's tall

side, The wolf is in thy kingly hall,

That holds thro’the tumult her path of pride. The lion in thy garden howls, And wilder, bloodier than they all, And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice,

'The Arab robber round thee prowls : To the gentle sound of a mother's voice; High vengeance smote thee from thy throne; | Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone Thou’rt dust and ashes, Babylon!

When from the board and the bearth 'tis


Where are thy pomps, Persepolis ?

The traveller trembles on his way, And some in the camp to the bugle's breath, To hear thy serpents' sullen biss,

And the tramp of the steed on the echoing Thou mighty daughter of decay!

heath, Thou thing of wonder and of scorn,

And the sudden roar of the hostile gun, Thy night has come without a morn. Which tells that a field must ere night be

won. Where are thy glories, Carthage? Dead !

Death lords it o'er thy pallid shore: And some in the gloomy convict-cell, What stirs thy sands? The robber's tread! | To the dull deep note of the warning bell,

What stirs thy waves ? The robber's oar: As it heavily calls them forth to die, The arm that smote the crest of Rome, | While the bright sun mounts in the laughing Here wastes in the eternal tomb!


And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, Oh! who can witness this,
And some to sounds from the city borne ; Nor feel the throb of bliss
And some to the rolling of torrent floods, with which creation's every pulse seems
Far'midst old mountains, and solemn woods.


Or who, 'mid such a store So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,

Of rapture flowing o'er, Each unto light hath a daily birth,

The tribute of the heart forbear repeating? Tho' fearful or joyous, tho' sad or sweet, Be the voices which first our upspringing

Yet have I known an honr meet.

Of more subduing power

| Than this of beauty glowing--music gushBut ONE must the sound be, and ONE the call,

ing; Which from the dust shall awake us all!

An hour whose quiet calm, ONE, tho' to sever'd and distant dooms

Diffus'd an holier balm, How shall the sleepers arise from their | Whose watch-word, “ Peace, be still !" the tombs?

inmost heart was hushing.




It is the close of day,

When evening's hues array
The western sky in all their radiant lustre;

When round the setting sun,

His goal of glory won,
Resplendent clouds in silent beauty muster.

How beautiful is morn!

When day-light, newly born,
From the bright portals of the East is break-


'Tis when day's parting light,
While songs of joy resound

Dazzling no more the sight,
From countless warblers round,

Its chastened glory to the eye is granting,
To light and life from silent slumber waking.

That “thoughts too deep for tears,"

Unearthly hopes and fears,
The parting clonds unfold

And voiceless feelings in the heart are
Their edges ting’d with gold;

Bright is the sammit of the lofty monntain;

The glist’ning tops of trees,
Touch'd by the rustling breeze,

While thus the western sky
Are bright and tuneful as the Muses' foun-

Delights the gazing eye,

With thrilling beauty, touching, and endear

As upward mounts the sun,

What still of earth is fair,
The vallies, one by one,

Borrows its beauty there,
Ope their recesses to the living splendor; Though every borrow'd charm is disappear-
The mighty ocean's breast

Heaves upward to be blest,
And bids its waves reflected light surrender.

Ere yet these charms grow dim,

Creation's vesper hymn,
Each humble flower lifts up

Grateful and lovely, is from earth ascending;
Its dewy beil or cup,

'Till with that song of praise, Smiling through tears that know no tinge of

The hearts of those who gaze

With solemn feelings of delight are blending.
The insect tribes come ont,
And, fluttering all about,

Then from those porta's bright,
Fill the fresh air with gentle sounds of glad. A farewell gleam of light

| Breaks with unearthly glory on the vision;

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Night is the time to watch;

O'er ocean's dark expanse,

To hail the Pleiades, or catch
A CRIMSON glow adorns the western sky; The full moon's earliest glance,

The setting sun looks broad at his decline | That brings into the home-sick mind,
The star of Evening twinkling, smiles on All we have loved and left behind.

high, And sings, The hand that made me is | Night is the time for care; divine."

Brooding on hours mispent,

To see the spectre of Despair, The silent moon begins her journey bright; Come to our lonely tent;

Across the ether blue, serenely glides; Like Brutus, ʼmidst his slumbering host, And smiling o'er the gloomy face of night, | Summond to die by Cæsar's ghost. Sublime in placid majesty she rides.

Night is the time to think; Religion thus, across this world of care, When, from the eye, the soul

Calmly majestic throws her peaceful beam, Takes flight, and, on the utmost brink Bids earth's dull scenes a heavenly aspect Of yonder starry pole wear,

Discerns beyond the abyss of night And all creation with fresh beauty teem. / The dawn of uncreated ligbt.

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