days, apparently as permanent, their very existence become now the subject of speculation-I had almost said of scepticism. I appeal to history! Tell me, thou reverend chronicler of the grave, can all the illusions of ambition realized, can all the wealth of a universal commerce, can all the achievements of successful heroism, or all the establishments of this world's wisdom, secure to empire the permanency of its possessions? Alas, Troy thought so once; yet the land of Priam lives only in song! Thebes thought so once; yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and her very tombs are but as the dust they were vainly intended to commemorate! So thought Palmyra-where is she! So thought Persepolis, and now- "Yon waste, where roaming lions howl, His power-clad arm controlled each happier clime, So thought the countries of Demosthenes and the Spartan; yet Leonidas is trampled by the timid slave, and Athens insulted by the servile, mindless, and enervate Ottoman! In his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined immortality, and all its vanities, from the palace to the tomb, have, with their ruins, erased the very impression of his footsteps! The days of their glory are as if they had never been; and the island that was then a speck, rude and neglected, in the barren ocean, now rivals the ubiquity of their commerce, the glory of their arms, the fame of their philosophy, the eloquence of their senate, and the inspiration of their bards! Who shall say, then, contemplating the past, that England, proud and potent as she appears, may not one day be what Athens is, and the young America yet soar to be what Athens was! Who shall say, when the European column shall have mouldered, and the night of barbarism obscured its very ruins, that that mighty continent may not emerge from the horizon, to rule, for its time, sovereign of the ascendant. Such, sir, is the natural progress of human operations and such the unsubstantial mockery of human pride. PADDY'S EXCELSIOR. 'Twas growing dark so terrible fashıt, Whin through a town up the mountain there pashed He looked mortal sad, and his eye was as bright Through the windows he saw, as he thraveled along, The light of the candles, and fires so warm, But a big chunk of ice hung over his head; Wid a slinivel and groan, "By St. Patrick !" he said, "It's up to the very tip-top I will rush, And then if it falls, it's not meself it'll crush, Be jabbers !" "Whisht a bit," said an owld man, whose head was as white A bright, buxom young girl, such as likes to be kissed, But, as yer shwate self has axed me, I may as well shtop He shtopped all night and he stopped all day,- To be laving his darlint in the swate honey-moon? Be jabbers! Harper's Magazine. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.-HORACE SMITH. DAY-STARS! that ope your eyes at morn to twinkle Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty 'Neath cloister'd bough each floral bell that swingeth, And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to those domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But to that fane most catholic and solemn, Which God hath plann'd; To that cathedral boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir, the wind and waves; its organ, thunder; Its dome, the sky. There, as in solitude and shade, I wander Through the lone aisles, or stretch'd upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God. Not useless are ye, flowers, though made for pleasure, Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preachers; In loneliest nook. Floral apostles, that with dewy splendor Blush without sin, and weep without a crime; Oh! may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender Your lore divine! 66 "Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist, Posthumous glories-angel-like collection, And second birth! Ephemeral sages-what instructors hoary To such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining, ONE GLASS MORE. STAY, mortal, stay; nor heedless thus Within that cup there lurks a curse, Which all who drink shall feel: Disease and death, forever nigh, Stand ready at the door, And enger wait to hear the cry Go, view that prison's gloomy cells, Gaze, gaze upon these earthly hells, Had these a tongue: O man! thy check Behold that wretched female form, Bleached in affliction's blighting storm, He'll whisper, in thy startled ear, 'Twas father's "One glass more." Stay, mortal, stay; repent, return, The poisonous draught indignant spurn,- Oh, fly the alehouse's horrid din, Nor linger at the door, Lest thou, perchance, should sip again The treacherous "One Glass More." JAFFAR.-LEIGH HUNT. JAFFAR, the Barmecide, the good vizier, All but the brave Mondeer; he, proud to show |