sunk upon her couch, Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, lull'd On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapp'd, Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shuddering nurse, Poor victim! smiles.—Silence and deep repose Reign o'er the nations; and the warning voice Of Nature utters audibly within The general moral:—tells us that repose, Deathlike as this, but of far longer span, Is coming on us—that the weary crowds, Who now enjoy a temporary calm, Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapp'd around With grave clothes: and their aching restless heads Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved, Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep.

Who needs a teacher to admonish him That flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist? What are our joys but dreams? and what our hopes But goodly shadows in the summer cloud? There's not a wind that blows but bears with it Some rainbow promise:—Not a moment flies But puts its sickle in the fields of life, And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. 'T is but as yesterday since on yon stars, Which now I view, the Chaldee shepherd3 gazed In his mid watch observant, and disposed The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. Yet in the interim what mighty shocks Have buffeted mankind—whole nations razed— Cities made desolate—the polish'd sunk To barbarism, and once barbaric states Swaying the wand of science and of arts; Illustrious deeds and memorable names Blotted from record, and upon the tongue Of gray Tradition, voluble no more.

Where are the heroes of the ages past? Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones Who flourish'd in the infancy of days? All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame Exultant, mocking at the pride of man, Sits grim Forgetfulness.—The warrior's arm Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame; Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze Of his red eyeball.—Yesterday his name Was mighty on the earth.—To-day—'t is what? The meteor of the night of distant years, That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, Musing at midnight upon prophecies, Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly Closed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up Safe in the enamel's treasures.

Oh how weak Is mortal man! how trifling—how confined His scope of vision! Puff'd with confidence, His phrase grows big with immortality, And he, poor insect of a summer's day! Dreams of eternal honours to his name; Of endless glory and perennial bays. He idly reasons of eternity, As of the train of ages,—when, alas! Ten thousand thousand of his centuries Are, in comparison, a little point Too trivial for account.—O, it is strange, 

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