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I watch'd, as in the dust supine I lay,
The fall of Thebes,-as I had mark'd its fame, Till crumbling down, as ages roll'd away, ,
Its site a lonely wilderness became ! The throngs that chok'd its hundred gates of yore;
Its fleets, its armies, were no longer seen: Its priesthood's pomp,-its Pharaohs were
more, All--all were gone-as if they ne'er had been !
Deep was the silence now, unless some vast
And time-worn fragment thunder'd to its base; Whose sullen echoes, o'er the desert cast,
Died in the distant solitude of space. Or haply, in the palaces of kings,
Some stray jackal sat howling on the throne : Or, on the temple's holiest altar, springs
Some gaunt hyæna, laughing all alone. Nature o'erwhelms the relics left by time;
By slow degrees entombing all the land, She buries every monument sublime,
Beneath a mighty winding-sheet of sand. Vain is each monarch's unremitting pains,
Who in the rock his place of burial delves ; Behold their proudest palaces and fanes
Are subterraneous sepulchres themselves.
Twenty-three centuries unmov'd I lay,
And saw the tide of sand around me rise ; Quickly it threaten'd to engulf its prey,
And close in everlasting night mine eyes.
Snatch'd in this crisis from my yawning grave,
Belzoni rolld me to the banks of Nile, And slowly heaving o'er the western wave,
This massy fragment reach'd the imperial isle. In London, now with face erect I gaze
On England's pallid sons, whose eyes upcast, View
colossal features with amaze, And deeply ponder on my glories past. But who my future destiny shall guess? Saint Paul's may lie-like Memnon's temple-
low; London, like Thebes, may be a wilderness,
And Thames, like Nile, through silent ruins flow. Then haply may my travels be renew’d:
Some Transatlantic hand may break my rest, And bear me from Augusta's solitude,
To some new seat of empire in the West. Mortal! since human grandeur ends in dust,
And proudest piles must crumble to decay; Build
up the tower of thy final trust In those bless'd realms—where nought shall pass away !
THE JOYS OF YOUTH.
How very lovely, art thou, in the young,
Or stupid crime, that mocks at worlds to come;
They throng the world in beauty, freedom, love; And the glad season given them they greet, As glad as it, for the brief space allow'd ; ”Till time tears off the mask that hid all ill,
'Till pain and wisdom hurry to their side,
THE DAISY IN INDIA. Dr. Carey, having deposited in his garden at Serampore, the earth in which a number of English seeds had been conveyed to him from his native land, was agreeably surprised by the appearance, in due time, of this “wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower.". This circumstance, being stated by the Doctor in a letter to a friend, suggested the following lines : THRICE welcome, little English Flower!
My mother-country's white and red, In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread. Transplanted from thine island bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth, Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.
Whose tribes beneath our natal skies,
But when the sun's gay beams arise,
Follow his motion to the west,
Then fold themselves to rest.
Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
To this resplendent hemisphere, Where Flora's giant offspring tower In
gorgeous liveries all the year: Thou, only thou, art little here,
Like worth unfriended or unknown;
Than all the torrid zone!
Of early scenes belov’d by me,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be! The fairy sports of infancy,
Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime, Home, country, kindred, friends,—with thee,
Are mine in this far clime.
Thrice welcome, little English Flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand : O for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May dews of that fair land, Where Daisies, thick as starlight stand
In every walk that here might shoot
A hundred from one root !
To me the pledge of Hope unseen:
For joys that were, or might have been; I'll call to mind, how-fresh and green
I saw thee waking from the dust; Then turn to heaven, with brow serene,
And place in God my trust. J. Montgomery.