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Alike to him man's haughty scorn,
Or empty praise, or changeful whim-
The gilded dome, or wreathed thorn,
Alike to him!

The clang of war, the victor's shout,
The moan of such as sit and weep,
Sound, but as wintry storms without

To those who sleep.

Love waits the summons of her Lord,
To tread all foes her foot beneath,
Fire, flood, the shock of earth, or sword

Of cruel Death.

Then, when the judgment-thunders roll,
And tyrant-worlds await their doom,
No power shall fetter down the soul

To yon lone tomb.

I see him spurn the ground I tread,
Unstain'd by Earth's clay winding sheet,
Rise from the regions of the dead,

His Lord to meet !

To be with Him, to wear the crown,
Fruition of extatic bliss!

-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,
And the train of her glory passed swift from his sight-
In the hour of his woe he hath called on his bride,
Knocked loud at her chamber-but none hath replied.

He hath wearied the winds with the tale of his woes;
They refuse to awake to bestir her repose:

The gods-they are deaf as their statues of stone,
They may list to the song-but they hear not the moan.

Since she issues no more from the cave of her sleep,
But evermore gone, leaves him ever to weep,
What, what shall he do to ennoble her name,

And make Rome strike it deep in the rolls of its fame?

He will rear o'er her head a memorial of pride,
That shall wed her to Time as a boon and a bride :
Her name shall not die while that record hath birth,
And that record shall live with the bound of the earth.

'Tis done-age rolls over age like the billowy surge,
And things that are past in things present immerge
Time, heedless of glory, sweeps rude with his wing
The arch of the warrior-the dome of the king.

Yet hath he respected his bride's lone retreat;
Tho' stern, he hath laid down his scythe at her feet;
He hath woven the ivy's green leaf round her form,
And tempered the rage of the rough-blowing storm.

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,
If defaced her beauty, he stays by her side;

But the touch of his hand is a touch of decay,
He wears out himself, as his years pass away.

For the bleak storms of Winter congeal on his breath,
And the warmth of his love is the chillness of death;
He may seek to preserve-from his hard icy hand,
The object he tends, crumbles loose like the sand.

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,
His arch of renown, or his marbles of woe!
Let him give as he list-they elude the fond sight,
Like swift-sailing clouds on the bosom of night.

Quick hasteth the day, when the angel shall stand,
And appeal to Jehovah with upraised hand:
One foot on the ocean, one foot on the shore,

He shall pass the dread death-doom-TIME IS NO MORE!

The hope of the Christian is based not on Time,
On the record of centuries burdened with crime;
Tho' his memory die, and earth cover his fame,
The Lord of his life shall remember his name!

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
The triple fountain in its marble shrine;
Not here the pilgrim's foot may find a rest,
Nor here await the proffered milk and wine.

In vain man boasts the virtues of the wave,
And weaves from age to age his fiction's spell;
No flower of promise blossoms o'er its cave,
Nor fields of waving corn its wanderings tell.

Cold, dark, and cheerless-prisoned in the rock,
Mid columned courts the glistening waves appear;
No heav'n-sent dew-as tho' some mountain-shock
Had wrung from earth her agonizing tear.

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