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I watch'd, as in the dust supine I lay,
The fall of Thebes, as I had mark'd its fame,-
Till crumbling down, as ages roll'd away,

Its site a lonely wilderness became !

The throngs that chok'd its hundred gates of yore;
Its fleets, its armies, were no longer seen:
Its priesthood's pomp,-its Pharaohs were no


All-all were gone-as if they ne'er had been!

Deep was the silence now, unless some vast
And time-worn fragment thunder'd to its base;
Whose sullen echoes, o'er the desert cast,
Died in the distant solitude of space.

Or haply, in the palaces of kings,

Some stray jackal sat howling on the throne:
Or, on the temple's holiest altar, springs
Some gaunt hyæna, laughing all alone.

Nature o'erwhelms the relics left by time;
By slow degrees entombing all the land,
She buries every monument sublime,

Beneath a mighty winding-sheet of sand.

Vain is each monarch's unremitting pains,
Who in the rock his place of burial delves;
Behold their proudest palaces and fanes
Are subterraneous sepulchres themselves.

Twenty-three centuries unmov'd I lay,

And saw the tide of sand around me rise; Quickly it threaten'd to engulf its prey,

And close in everlasting night mine eyes.

Snatch'd in this crisis from my yawning grave,
Belzoni roll'd me to the banks of Nile,
And slowly heaving o'er the western wave,
This massy fragment reach'd the imperial isle.
In London, now with face erect I gaze

On England's pallid sons, whose eyes upcast,
View colossal features with amaze,

And deeply ponder on my glories past.

But who my future destiny shall guess?

Saint Paul's may lie-like Memnon's temple


London, like Thebes, may be a wilderness,

And Thames, like Nile, through silent ruins flow.

Then haply may my travels be renew'd:

Some Transatlantic hand may break my rest, And bear me from Augusta's solitude,

To some new seat of empire in the West.

Mortal! since human grandeur ends in dust,
And proudest piles must crumble to decay;
Build up
the tower of thy final trust

In those bless'd realms-where nought shall pass away!

Horace Smith.


How very lovely, art thou, in the young,

Oh, life! ere they know wasting pain, that wrings,
With agony remediless, the nerves ;

Or shame that fires the brain, or the world's wrong,
That crushes like a rock; or guilty hopes,
That covet other's pain; or o'erwrought toil,
That crouches down in torpor and despair;

Or stupid crime, that mocks at worlds to come;
Or the wild hell of triple-fang'd remorse,
That trembles inly with fantastic dread
It dares not face or question. In the young,
Life is a good, and only in the young,
Whose organs play with ease; whose warm veins
With tides of simple gladness; whose light breasts
Lodge happy inmates yet; nor fear old Time,
With all his growing pack of hopes deceiv'd,
And toils unrecompens'd, and faith betray'd;
Of honours due refus'd, virtue belied,
And scorn unmerited endur'd; of want;
Of deep affections, rooted in the core
Of their frail beings, blasted by the breath
Of fools pestiferous; of the fond ties,
Twin'd round the heart by nature, virtue, love,
Threaten'd by death, all merciless, or rent,
Tearing the bosom's finest chords withal

That heal no more; no, never! These, unknown,
Leave to the young, free minds ungall❜d by care,
And bodies sound, that scarcely are perceiv'd,
Not felt as eating shackles of the soul;
And the full peace of ignorance; the joy
Of many hopes in flower; the kindly warmth
Of love on all diffus'd: from them the sword
Far flaming, is withheld; and they enjoy,
In innocence, the paradise of earth.
They ask not of the sky unequal good,
But share its manna with their fellows round,
And wonder at the bounty of high heaven.

They throng the world in beauty, freedom, love;
And the glad season given them they greet,
As glad as it, for the brief space allow'd;
"Till time tears off the mask that hid all ill,

'Till pain and wisdom hurry to their side,
And hope and beauty flee. Oh! for a charm,
To bind for ever fast, the am'ranth wreath
Young life puts on, and lift from age's scalp,
Bleeding and wrung, th' eternal crown of thorns.
It may not be the lot is cast and drawn,
Nor can be put aside; save by the arm

That could roll round, with ease, the flaming sun
Backward, astonish'd, on his axis firm.



Dr. Carey, having deposited in his garden at Serampore, the earth in which a number of English seeds had been conveyed to him from his native land, was agreeably surprised by the appearance, in due time, of this " wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower." This circumstance, being stated by the Doctor in a letter to a friend, suggested the following lines:

THRICE welcome, little English Flower!
My mother-country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,

Never to me such beauty spread.
Transplanted from thine island bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.

Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
Whose tribes beneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower;
But when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabash'd but modest eyes,

Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till day-light dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.

Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant offspring tower
In gorgeous liveries all the year:
Thou, only thou, art little here,

Like worth unfriended or unknown;
Yet to my English heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone !

Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
Of early scenes belov'd by me,
While happy in my father's bower,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be!
The fairy sports of infancy,

Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,
Home, country, kindred, friends,—with thee,
Are mine in this far clime.

Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand:
O for the April sun and shower,

The sweet May dews of that fair land,
Where Daisies, thick as starlight stand
In every walk!-that here might shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand
A hundred from one root!

Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
To me the pledge of Hope unseen :
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower,
For joys that were, or might have been;
I'll call to mind, how-fresh and green-
I saw thee waking from the dust;
Then turn to heaven, with brow serene,
And place in God my trust.

J. Montgomery.

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