Four thousand baths and palaces did fill her,
All crumbled into dust 'round Pompey's Pillar.

From Cairo's walls go bring that scene sublime,
(And with our latest breath we'll bless the giver,)
Of Pyramids still battling with old Time-

The land of Goshen and th' Eternal River!
And tomb and monument, and obelisk that stands
In solitary grandeur, 'mid the desert's sands.

Be quick, and let our eager eyes devour
Old Hecatompylos, though not as when
Through every gate, she could at once outpour
Two hundred chariots and ten thousand men ;
But of her mighty self, the granite skeleton,
Whose giant bones for miles lie whitening* in the sun.

Imagination flags and falters on the rack-
Description 's beggar'd, and in vain would rise
Up to thy vastness, Luxor! and Carnac!

Naught but the eye that scene can realize-
Give us the temples! columns! gateway! propylon!-
None but thy master-hand can do it, glorious Sun!

Bring Edom's long lost Petra-she who made
Her dwellings in the "rocky clefts"—all brought
To desolation, or in fragments laid,

A thousand years unheard of and forgot!—
High as the eagle's nest her palaces she built,
But God did smite her for her haughtiness and guilt.

Bring us each Grecian and each Roman wreck-
Th' Acropolis and Coliseum bring;

And Tadmor or Palmyra, and Balbec

The costly cities reared by Israel's king :†

Collect the whole-all left by Turk, Goth, Vandal, Hun, In one vast gallery of pictures by the Sun.

*They are neither gray nor blackened. They have no lichen nor moss, but like the bones of man, they seem to whiten under the sun of the desert.-Stephens.

The universal tradition of the country, according to Wood, is, that Balbec, as well as Palmyra, was built by Solomon.

A MENTAL RETROSPECTION.

I once could see, but now am blind-
The world is dark to me;

But, oh, 'tis fresh within my mind,
As once it used to be.

I can recall the break of day-
The first faint streak of light-
The mists which rose and swept away,
Along the mountain height.

The last dim stars which 'gan to fade
Before the approaching sun-
The flood of light his advent made--
His glory going down.

I knew not which did please me best,-
That flood of morning light,
Or that refulgent plunge to rest,
Within the arms of night.

I recollect the opening Spring,
The Violet's early bloom;
The Iris I was first to bring
To my dear mother's room;
The Hyacinth soon followed these,
With white or purple bells;
And shrubs among yet leafless trees
Peep'd out from sunny dells.
The Red Bud stood, with blushes deep,
Beside the Dogwood pale;
And made my heart exulting leap,
Returning warmth to hail,
Methinks I now can see the wheat,
Spread like a carpet green,

With peach and cherry blossoms sweet,
Embroid'ring all the scene.

That wheat, in Summer, changed in hue-
Wav'd like a sea of gold-

And as the soft winds o'er it flew,

'Twas beauteous to behold;

Those blossoms had been early shed--
The type of man's own doom;
For thus as soon our early dead
Oft sink into the tomb.

But, oh! their place was quick supplied
By many a verdant leaf;

And for the loss of those who died,
There was no heart for grief.

For there was fruit, and there were leaves-
Fast flutt'ring ev'ry one—

The shady veils which Mercy waves
To curtain out the sun.

Autumnal days! ah, they were soft—
Sometimes with smoky light;

And those were sad; but then they oft
Foreran the clear and bright.

And then the wood-the waving wood-
Look'd rich beyond belief;

With some trees dyed as red as blood,
And some with golden leaf;
Deep orange tints, and purple too,

Were mix'd with evergreen,
And ev'ry shade and ev'ry hue
Within the rainbow seen;

In color'd map, these trees were group'd
All over hill and dale-

And such the groves, where fairies troop'd,
In some Arabian tale.

But Winter came to blast that scene,

And lay it bleak and bare;

And nothing save the evergreen,
Was left of all so fair.

How was it, glorious evergreen!

That thou wert smiling on,

When other trees around, were seen

So sad and woe-begone?

Yet, still there was in winter's face

A charm unto my eye;

A might-a majesty and grace,
To lift the soul on high:

The storm and tempest sweeping past,
The torrents too of rain,
The flaky snows descending fast,
And burying all the plain.

And there were moonbeams cold and bright,
Out on the waste which froze;
What lovelier thing than starry night,
Upon the sparkling snows?

"The floor of heaven was thick inlaid
With patines of bright gold;"*

A firmament beneath was made-
A mimic heaven unroll'd.

Yes, Winter, lock'd in "thick-ribb'd ice,"
Thou too had charms for me:

Those skies were worth a countless price,
And I could welcome thee.
Life's winter on me dreary lies,
And dark my path on earth,
But I may see those starry skies,
Through my Redeemer's worth.

Battle of New Orleans.

Of Jackson and the brave,

The day to mem'ry bring,

When to battle o'er the wave,

Came the host of England's king;

And their ships poured them out along the strand.
Our hearts of sterling gold,

Saw their phalanxes unfold,
And Packenham the bold

Led the band.

* Sit Jessica: look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patinest of bright gold.

Merchant of Venice.

Patines were small flat dishes used in the administration of the Eucharist.

In column close they form,
As the signal rocket flew,
And on our lines to storm,

In the deepest silence drew:
It was a winter morn, as they tell,
When threat'ning came the crowd,
Like a red Sirocco cloud,

Which would wrap us in its shroud,
As it fell.

The blood within us rushed

To meet at once the foe,

But the throbbing heart was hushed,
To strike a deadlier blow;

Fire! at length, our captains cried, when huzza,
Broke out upon their sight,

A sheet of vollied light, As volcano was it bright, On the air.

Huzza! huzza! huzza!

Destruction raged around, And our thunderbolts of war

Scatter'd havoc o'er the ground,

And the pride of British hearts 'gan to quail;

In anguish now they wheel,

And in path of blood they reel,

Yet those are hearts of steel,

Though they fail.

The carnage it is done,

Their thousands strew the plain,

What courage could they won,

They "quit themselves like men,"

And the laurel of the brave never dies;
But let Old England hear us,

If again she comes so near us,
"Twere better far to fear us,

Than despise.

But ere the song be ended,

The tribute let us pay,

To him whose skill defended

Our commonwealth that day;