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TIME AND ETERNITY.
| I ask'd him, What is time? “Time,” he
“ 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
Which beautify, or desolate the gronnd;
“ '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 !!
RUINS OF PALMYRA.
IMPORTANCE OF TIME.
SAD city of the silent place!
Queen of the dreary wilderness,
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!
ather, lord of human race: | The eternal ruins frowning stand,
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
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?
To stamp the seal of time on aged things Hath, like his glory, withered there:
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;
And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming THE FATE OF EMPIRES.
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,
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.
MORNING AND EVENING.
It is the close of day,
When evening's hues array
When round the setting sun,
His goal of glory won,
How beautiful is morn!
When day-light, newly born,
'Tis when day's parting light,
Dazzling no more the sight,
Its chastened glory to the eye is granting,
That “thoughts too deep for tears,"
Unearthly hopes and fears,
And voiceless feelings in the heart are
The glist’ning tops of trees,
While thus the western sky
Delights the gazing eye,
With thrilling beauty, touching, and endear
What still of earth is fair,
Borrows its beauty there,
Ere yet these charms grow dim,
Creation's vesper hymn,
Grateful and lovely, is from earth ascending;
'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.
Then from those porta's bright,
| Breaks with unearthly glory on the vision;
Night is the time to watch;
O'er ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The setting sun looks broad at his decline | That brings into the home-sick mind,
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.