Alike to him man's haughty scorn, The clang of war, the victor's shout, To those who sleep. Love waits the summons of her Lord, Of cruel Death. Then, when the judgment-thunders roll, To yon lone tomb. I see him spurn the ground I tread, His Lord to meet ! To be with Him, to wear the crown, -O may I lay my body down, In hope like his! TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA. AND SWARE-THERE SHOULD BE TIME NO LONGER. REV. X. 6. 'Tis in vain-she is gone like a meteor of night, He hath wearied the winds with the tale of his woes; The gods-they are deaf as their statues of stone, Since she issues no more from the cave of her sleep, And make Rome strike it deep in the rolls of its fame? He will rear o'er her head a memorial of pride, 'Tis done-age rolls over age like the billowy surge, Yet hath he respected his bride's lone retreat; Yet vain is his care-War springs up by his side, And plants his fell foot on the tomb of the bride, Nought recks he the couch, where her sorrows repose, But stains the chaste marble with blood of his foes. He flies, when Peace comes with its own olive-wand, He flies-but leaves ruthless, the marks of his handShelled and broken, he circles her brows with his crown, And o'er the dead's slumbers his battlements frown. 1 1 The tomb is surmounted with Gothic battlements, appendages of the middle ages, when it was used as a fortress. Still Time faithful upholds her, his own chosen bride, But the touch of his hand is a touch of decay, For the bleak storms of Winter congeal on his breath, Then out upon Time! since War laughs him to scorn, And plucks rudely the bays he for ages hath worn; Since the blasts of the storm pour contempt on his fame, And he saves for his bride but a shell and a name! Who would heed to the life his vain favours bestow, Quick hasteth the day, when the angel shall stand, He shall pass the dread death-doom-TIME IS NO MORE! The hope of the Christian is based not on Time, S. PAOLO ALLE TRE FONTANE. IF ANY MAN THIRST, LET HIM COME UNTO ME AND DRINK.-JOHN VII. 37. SICK of the tales of monks, I leave unblest In vain man boasts the virtues of the wave, Cold, dark, and cheerless-prisoned in the rock, |