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ANCIENT UTICA,

TUA GLORIA EST PROFECTA..

THOU of the things that were! a solemn voice Seems from thy ruin to be stealing deep, From thy clear fountains, wont but to rejoice, In days of old, in pure and glassy sleep!

Oh! might thy broken walls the spirits keep, Which gave thee glory in the days gone by,

As a brief ray when thronging tempests sweep On the thick darkness of the clouded sky, That fears the searching glance of the sun's burning eye.

Where are the hosts that shouted by thy wave, Thou dark Bograda, with thy murmuring. tone?

Is there no sound to answer from the grave, Where the high hearts of other years have gone?

Hath troubled Lethe to her cold wave won The mighty of the past-the faded dead?

Is the bright race of their existence run,

Like the last hues of day, when softly shed From a deep, mournful sky o'er land and ocean spread.

Where are the senates in thy proud domain? Their halls are ashes: Cæsar's marble now Gleams from the dust, awaked to life again With the green leaves upon his lofty brow! Oh, may thy crumbled temples tell us how The shout of triumph thrilled, when Cato spoke Deep tones, and fearless as a harp's sweet

flow:

Alas! his voice is hushed! life's chain is broke! Who may relume his eye, which once to glory woke ?

Ask of the traveller where thy might hath fled

He who looks on thee while the soft winds sighing,

Breathe in the olives waving o'er the dead:
Of mouldering arches to man's step replying,
And columns, where the night-bird's lays are
dying!

These are the records of thy dull decay-
Of Time's swift footsteps o'er earth's glory
flying,

Blending with dust the might and the array Of pride, and joy, and hope-earth's dreams that pass away!

Yet, when the day-beams light the lengthening plain,

Thine is a scene of peace: the citron grove Waves in its soft, green light; the distant main

Sends on the summer-breeze a hymn of love From the glad sailor's heart; the sky above Wears hues all glorious, and the earth is drest In joy and beauty, while the sweet winds

rove,

Making soft music o'er a city's rest,

Chanting a plaintive song o'er valor's mouldering breast!

Nature is with thee in luxuriant spring,
Though dust is blending with thy colonnades,
Still summer all her revelry doth bring:
The deep recesses of her tuneful shades,
And birds' sweet voices in the fragrant glades:
These cling around thee, when the moss of age
Sleeps on thy pillars as their grandeur fades-
A trace of ruin on Time's changing page-
A picture of the past- of man's brief pilgrim-
age!

Nature is with thee!-spring, with smile and sigh,

And lulling founts in the pure sunlight leap

ing;

Bright wings are glancing in the purple sky,

The early leaves and open buds o'er sweeping

A scene of joy o'er faded glory keeping — Breathing calm freshness o'er the fair earth's breast:

On the green spot where glorious dust is sleeping,

Where the high heart its kindred earth has

pressed,

Nature is lovely still, above MAN's silent rest!

THE DYING POET.

"I could lie down, like a tried child,
And weep away this life of care,
Which I have borne and still must bear,
Till death, like sleep, might steal on me,
And I might feel, in the warm air,
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony."

Shelley.

'Tis a spring hour: the silvery green
Of new-leaved woods delight my breast;
Yet must I leave this joyous scene,

Close my dim eyes, and be at rest;
The dews of death are on my brow,
And saddened Memory turns to trace
Scenes of pure thought which shone but now,
Ere yet I close life's fitful race!

The melody of early birds

Comes softly to my dying ear:
How like the sweet and gentle words
Which early love rejoiced to hear!
The last red light is on the flowers,
Their tints upon the green earth lie :
Oh! must I turn from life's warm hours,
From this bright scene of joy to die?

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