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Time in advance, hehind him hides his

wings, And seems to creep, decrepit with his age; Behold him when pass'd hy; what then is

seen But his hroad pinions swifter than the wind? And all mankind, in contradiction strong, Rueful, aghast! cry out at his career.



I Asb'd an aged man, a man of cares, Wrinkled, and curv'd, and white with hoary

hairs; "Time is the warp of life," he said, " O tell The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it


I ask'd the ancient venerahle dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who hled;
From the cold grave a hollow murmur

flow'd, "Time sow'd the seeds we reap in this

ahode I"

I ask'd a dying siuner, ere the stroke

Of ruthless death life's "golden howl had


I ask'd him, What is time? "Time," he

replied, "I've lost it, Ah the treasure /" and he died I

I ask'd the golden sun and silver spheres, Those hright chronometers of days and years; They answer'd, "Time is hut a meteor'm

glare," And hade me for Eternity prepare.

I ask'd the seasons, in their aunual round
Which heantify, or desolate the ground;
And they replied (no oracle more wise,)
"'Tis folly's hlank, and wisdom's highest

I ask'd a spirit lost, hut, O the shriek
That pierced my soul! I shudder while I

It cried, " A particle! a speck! a mite
Of endless years, duration intinite!

Of things inanimate, my dial I
Consulted, and it made me this reply,
"Time is the season fair of living well,
The path to Glory, or the path to Hell."

I ask'd my Bihle, and methinks it said,
"Thine is the present hour, the past is fled;
Live! live to-day! to-morrow never yet,
On any human heing, rose or set!"

I ask'd old father Time himself at last;
But in a moment he flew swiftly past;

His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind His noiseless steeds, that left no trace hehind.

X ask'd the mighty Angel, who shall stand

One foot on sea, and ooe on solid land;

** By heav'ns, great King, I swear the mystery's o'er I

Time was," he cried,—" hat Time shall he no more!"


On all-important time from every age, Though much, and warm, the wise have

nrg'd, the man Is yet unhorn who duly weighs an hour. ** I've lost a day"—the prince who nohly

cried, Had heen an emperor without his crown; Of Rome ? say rather, lord of human race: He spoke, aa if deputed hy mankind. So should all speak: so reason, speaks in all: From the soft whispers of that God in man, Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly, For rescue from the hlessing we possess! Time the supreme ;—Time is eternity; Pregnant with all eternity can give; Pregnant with all, that makes archangels

smile. Who murders Time, he crushes in the hirth A power ethereal, only not adored.



Time's glory is to calm contending Kings,

To unmask falsehood, and hring truth to light,

To stamp the seal of time on aged things

To wake the morn, and sentinel the night,

To wrong the wronger till he render right;

To ruinate proud huildings with his hours,

And smear withdust their glittering golden


To fill with worm-holes stately monuments To feed ohlivion with decay of things,

To hlot old hook9, and alter their contents, To pluck the quills from ancient ravem'

wings, To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs, To spoil antiquities of hammer' d steel, And turn the giddy round of fortune's wheel.



Sad city of the silent place!
Queen of the dreary wilderness,
No voice of life, no passing sound
Disturhs thy dreadful calm around;
Save the wild desert-dweller's roar,
Which tells the reign of man is o'er,
Or winds that thro' thy portal sigh
Upon their night-course Hitting hy!

The eternal ruins frowning stand.
Like giant-spectres of the land;
Or o'er the dead like mourners hang,
Bent down hy speechless sorrow's pang;
What time, and .space, and loneliness,
All, o'er the sadden'd spirit press,
Around in leaden slumhers lie
The dread wastes of infmity,
Where not a gentle hill doth swell,
Where not a hermit shruh doth dwell;
And where the song of wandering flood
Ne'er voiced the fearful solitude.

How sweetly sad our pensive tears
Flow o'er each hroken arch that rears
Its grey head through the mists of years I
And where are now the dreams of Fame,
The promise of a deathless name l
Alas! the deep delusion's gone 1
And all, except the mouldering stone,
The wreath that deck'd the victor's hair,
Hath, like his glory, withered there:
And Time's immortal garlands twine
O'er desolation's mournful shrine,
Like youth's emhrace around decline.

O'er Beauty's dark and desert hed
Ages of dreamless sleep have fled,
And in the domes where once she smiled,
The whispering weeds are waving wild;

The prince's court is the jackalPs lair,
He peeps through Time's cold windows

Broken the harp, and all unstrung,
Perish'd the strains ihe minstrel sung.
The moss of ages is their pall,
And dull ohlivion hides them all I

Yet there, though now no mortal eye
Looks forth upon the earth and sky,
The evening star steals out as mild,
Ahove the lone, and mighty wild,
As when young lovers hailed its light,
Far in the dark-hlue fields of night;
And dews as hrightly gem the ground,
As when a garden smiled around.

Go read thy fate, thou thing of clay,
In wrecks of ages rolled away;
Read it in this dread hook of doom,
A city crumhled to a tomh!
Where the lorn remnants of the past,
Shed deeper sadness o'er the waste,
Where Melancholy hreathes her spell.
And chroniclers of ruin dwell.


The wolf is in thy kingly hall,

The lion in thy garden howls, And wilder, hloodier than they all,

The Arah rohher round thee prowls: High vengeance smote thee from thy throne; Thon'rt dust and ashes, Bahylon!

Where are thy pomps, Persepolis?

The traveller tremhles on his way, To hear thy serpents' sullen hiss,

Thou mighty daughter of decay! Thou thing of wonder and of scorn. Thy night has come without a morn.

Where are thy glories, Carthage? Dead I Death lords it o'er thy pallid shore:

What stirs thy sands? The rohher's tread! What stirs thy waves? The rohher's oar:

The arm that smote the crest of Rome,

Here wastes in the eternal tomhl

City of Constantino,—Earth's queen!

Where are thy hanner and thy how? Sits in thy gates the Saracen?

Oh fallen! the lowest of the low! Has not the earth one generous sword, To save thee from the Tartar horde?

My country! shalt thou have thy hour,
When rolls the wheel of destiny?

No I holiness shall he thy tower;
The free, the slave, shall plead for thee,

Thou friend and fortress of them all,

No, England! thou shalt never fall.



"While Day arises, that sweet hour of prime."

How many thousands are wakening now! Some to the songs from the forest-hough, To the rustling of leaves at the lattice pane. To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some, far oat on the deep mid-sea, To the dash of the waves in their foaming

glee, As they hreak into spray on the ship's tall

side, That holds thro' the tumult her path of pride.

And some—oh! well may their hearts rejoice, To the gentle sound of a mother's voice; Long shall they yearn for that kindly too», When from the hoard and the hearth 'tis gone.

And some in the camp to the hogle's hreath. And the tramp of the steed on the echoic;

heath, And the sndden roar of the hostile gun, Which tells that a field must ere night he


And some in the gloomy convict-cell,
To the dull deep note of the warning hejl,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,
While the hright sun mounts in the langhis;

And aomc to the peal of the hunter'- horn,
And some to sounds from the city horne;
And some to the rolling of torrent floods,
Par 'midst old mountains,and solemn woods.

So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,
Each onto light hath a daily hirth,
Tho' fearful or joyous, tho' sad or sweet.
Be the voices which first our upspringing

But ONE must the sound he, and ONE the call,

Which from the dust shall awake us all! ONE, thos to sever'd and distant dooms— How shall the sleepers arise from their tomhs?



How heantiful is morn!
When day-light, newly horn,

From the hright portals of the East is hreak-
While songs of joy resound
From countless warhlers round,

To light and life from silent slumher waking.

The parting clouds unfold
Their edges ting'd with gold;

Bright is the summit of the lofty mountain;
The glist'ning tops of trees,
Touch'd hy the rustling hreeze,

Are hright and tuneful as the Muses' fountain.

As upward mounts the sun,

The vallies, one hy one, Ope their recesses to the living splendor;

The mighty ocean's hreast

Heaves upward to he hlest, And hids its waves rettected light surrender.

Each humhle flower lifts up Its dewy hell or cup, Smiling through tears that know no tinge of sadness; The insect trihes come out, And, fluttering all ahout, Fill the fresh air with gentle sotmds of gladness.

Oh! who can wituess thix.

Nor feel the throh of hliss With which creation's every pulse seems heating?

Or who, 'mid such a store

Of rapture flowing o'er, The trihute of the heart forhear repeating?

Yet have I known an hour Of more suhduing power Than this of heanty glowing—music gushing;— An hour whose quiet calm, Diffus'd an holier halm, Whose watch-word, " Peace, he still !"the iumost 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 heanty muster.

'Tis when day's parting light,

Dazzling no more the sight, Its chastened glory to the eye is granting,

That "thoughts too deep for teats,"

Unearthly hopes and fears, And voiceless feelings in the heart arc panting.

While thas the western sky
Delights the gazing eye,
With thrilling heanty, touching, and endear-
What still of earth is fair,
Borrows its heanty there,
Though every horrow'd charm is disappear-

Ere yet these charms grow dim,
Creation's vesper hymn,

Grateful and lovely, is from earth ascending;
Till with that song of praise,
The hearts of those who gaze

With solemn feelings of delight are hlending.

Then from those porta's hright, A farewell gleam of light Breaks with unearthly glory on the vision;

And through the folding doors,
The eye of thought explores
Seraphic forms, and phantasies elysian.

These pass like thought away!
Yet may their hallow'd sway
Rest on the heart,—as dew-drops round
The drooping, silent flowers
Feed them through night's dark hours,
And keep them fresh and living till the

Thus should the sunset hour,

With senl-ahsorhing power, Nurse hy its glories the immortal spirit;

And plume its wings for flight

To realms of cloudless light, Regions its God hath form'd it to inherit.

Fair, hright, and sweet is Morn!

When daylight, newly horn,
In all its heauty is to sense appealing;

Yet Eve to me is fraught

With more unearthly thought.
And. purer touches of immortal feeling!



A Crimson glow adorns the western sky; The setting sun looks hroad at his decline The star of Evening twinkling, smiles on high, And sings, " The hand that made me is divine."

The silent moon hegins her journey hright;

Across the ether hlue, serenely glides; And smiling o'er the gloomy face of night,

Suhlime in placid majesty she rides.

Religion thus, across this world of care, Calmly majestic throws her peaceful heam,

Bids earth's dull scenes a heavenly aspect wear, And all creation with fresh heauty teem.



Night is the time for rest

How sweet, when lahours close,

To gather round an aching hreast

The curtain of repose,

Stretch the tired limhs, and lay the head

Down on our own delightful hed I

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,

When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Mix in fantastic strife:

Ah! visions, less heguiling far

Than waking dreams hy day-light are!

Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field,

Intent to find the huried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield;

Till all is ours that sages taught,

That poets sang, and heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory, where sleep

The joys of other years;

Hopes, that were angels at their hirth,

But died when young like things of earth.

Night is the time to watch;
O'er ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance,
That hrings into the home-sick mind,
All we have loved and left hehind-
Night is the time for care;
Brooding on hours mispent,
To see the spectre of Despair,
Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumhering host,
Summon'd to die hy Caesar's ghost.

Night is the time to think;

When, from the eye, the soul

Takes flight, and, on the utmost hrink

Of yonder starry pole

Discerns heyond the ahyss of night

The dawn of uncreated light.

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