Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat, * Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh glass to glass; Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass, I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd, Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue Still silent, incommunicative elf! Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; But prithee tell us something of thyself; Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, What hast thou seen-what strange adventures numbered? Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended, New worlds have risen-we have lost old nations, Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd, A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. Why should this worthless tegument endure, If its undying guest be lost for ever? Oh! let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue, that, when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. TIME.-Shelley. UNFATHOMABLE Sea! whose waves are years, Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow And sick of prey, yet howling on for more, Who shall put forth on thee, Unfathomable Sea? SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER.-D. F. Macarthy. SUMMER is a glorious season, Warm, and bright, and pleasant; But the past is not a reason G So, while health can climb the mountain, There are sunny days in winter, after all! Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us, But the memory of the vanish'd Maketh sunny days in winter, after all! True, there's scarce a flower that bloomethAll the best are dead; But the wall-flower still perfumeth Yonder garden bed; And the arbutus, pearl-blossom'd, Hangs its coral ball : There are sunny days in winter, after all! Summer trees are pretty-very, And I love them well; But this holly's glistening berry While the fir can warm the landscape, And the ivy clothes the wall, There are sunny days in winter, after all! Sunny hours in every season Wait the innocent;— Those who taste with love and reason Those who neither soar too highly, Nor too lowly fall, Feel the sunny days of winter, after all! Then, although our darling treasures Then, although our once-loved pleasures Though the tomb looms in the distance, There is sunshine, and no winter, after all ! A SONG OF THE STORM.-P. B. Marston. ACROSS the barren moor 'Neath clashing winds of night From whose gaping foam-mouths flee As souls by evil dreams. If only I might share Would make my heart rise high, While the wind of sound goes by. O women with rent hair, The wind beats back your prayer, The loved ones strive for life. The anger of the seas Or make a night of peace, With sea and wind at strife! Sea-shrieks come loud and long, Against the cliffs the wind O white and windy deep, O lorn and stricken lea! Thou, God, in whose clear sight And all the tumult still. LIFE THROUGH DEATH.-Archbishop Trench. Which thrust it forth, as it had feared, to die ;- THE CLOUD.-Shelley. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid |