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In thought, I saw the palace domes of Tyre ;
The gorgeous treasures of her merchandise; All her proud people in their brave attire,
Thronging her streets for sport or sacrifice.
I saw the precious stones and spiceries; The singing girl with flower-wreathed instrument; And slaves whose beauty ask'd a monarch's
price. Forth from all lands all nations to her went, And kings to her on embassy were sent.
I saw, with gilded prow and silken sail, Her ships that of the sea had government:
Oh gallant ships !’gainst you what might prevail? She stood upon her rock, and in her pride Of strength and beauty, waste and woe defied. I look'd again—I saw a lonely shore,
A rock amid the waters, and a waste Of trackless sand :-I heard the bleak sea's roar,
And winds that rose and fell with gusty haste.
There was one scath'd tree, by storm defac’d, Round which the sea-birds wheel'd with scream
ing cry. Ere long came on a traveller, slowly pac'd ; Now east, than west, he turn'd with curious eye, Like one perplex'd with an uncertainty. Awhile he look'd
and then Upon a book, as if it might supply
The things he lack’d:-he read, and gaz'd again; Yet, as if unbelief so on him wrought, He might not deem this shore the shore he sought. Again I saw him come:-'twas eventide ;
The sun shone on the rock; amid the sea The winds were hush’d; the quiet billows sigh'd
With a low swell;—the birds wing'd silently
Their evening flight around the scathed tree: The fisher safely put into the bay,
And push'd his boat ashore ;—then gather'd he His nets, and hasting up the rocky way, Spread them to catch the sun's warm evening ray,
I saw that stranger's eye gaze on the scene ; “And this was Tyre!” said he: "how has decay
Within her palaces a despot been! Ruin and silence in his courts are met, And on her city-rock the fisher spreads his net !”
THE GLOW WORM.
IF on some balmy breathing night of spring
The happy child, to whom the world is new, Pursues the evening moth of mealy wing, Or from the heath-flower beats the sparkling
dew, He sees before his inexperienc'd eyes,
The brilliant Glow-worm like a meteor shine On the turf bank : amaz'd and pleas'd he cries,
“Star of the dewy grass, I make thee mine!” Then, ere he sleeps, collects the moisten'd flower,
And bids soft leaves his glitt'ring prize unfold, And dreams that fairy lamps illume his bower;
Yet with the morning shudders to behold His lucid treasure rayless as the dust : So turn the world's bright joys to cold and blank disgust.
Mrs. C. Smith,
ON PLANTING A TULIP ROOT.
Here lies a bulb, the child of earth,
Buried alive beneath the clod, Ere long to spring, by second birth,
A new and nobler work of God. 'Tis said, that microscopic power
Might through its swaddling folds descry The infant image of the flower,
Too exquisite to meet the eye. This vernal suns and rains will swell, Till from its dark abode it
peep, Like Venus rising from her shell,
Amidst the spring-tide of the deep.
Then, on a smooth elastic stem,
A form more perfect can display;
Nor nature take a hue away.
All beautiful, but none alike. Kings on their bridal might unrobe,
To lay their glories at its foot; And queens their sceptre, crown, and globe;
Exchange for blossom, stalk and root.
Here could I stand and moralize:
Reader! I leave that part to thee !
THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF
A wanderer proudly stood
Of Egypt's awful flood;
A low mysterious tone;
By kings and warriors gone:
Rush'd through his burning frame ;-
Its torrents could not tame;
There swept a sudden change,
A shadow dark and strange
No more than this! What seem'd it now
First by that spring to stand ?
Bath'd his own mountain land!
They call’d him back to many a glade,
His childhood's haunt of play, Where brightly through the beechen shade
Their waters glanc'd away:
Of each familiar scene,
With all that lay between;
The spirit born to roam ?
With yearnings for his home!
Behold his burning tears,
The meed of toiling years!