Here, as we gaze-I and my friend, Yes, thou art fair, and fain would I, Each morning sun a rainbow builds With pearls, to deck its occan home. Too soon it fades, unseen by all, Save the rude woodman of the hill, Or when for water to the fall, Trips the glad damsel of the mill. Methinks, at winter's dazzling night, Thine were a lovelier scene than now, For then the very air is white With the pure stars and purer snow. And trees, like crystal chandeliers, Light by the moon their gems of tears, Where, like a queen bride, thou dost march. And, oft, with a peculiar awe, Thou com'st the moss-green rocks to lash. When the soft vernal breezes thaw The long chain'd river, at one crash Fall of the forest! on a wild Romantic pilgrimage I come, F. S. ECKHARD. THE RUINED CITY. THE days of old, though time has reft Yet many a remnant still is left To shadow forth the past. The warlike deed, the classic page, The lyric torrent, strong and free, Are lingering o'er the gloom of age, A thousand years have roll'd along, And blasted empires in their pride; And witness'd scenes of crime and wrong, Till men by nations died. A thousand summer suns have shone Till earth grew bright beneath their sway, Since thou, untenanted, and lone, Wert render'd to decay. The moss tuft, and the ivy wreath, For ages clad thy fallen mould, And gladden'd in the spring's soft breath; But they grer wan and old. Now, desolation hath denied That even these shall veil thy gloom : And nature's mantling beauty died In token of thy doom. Alas, for the far years, when clad With the bright vesture of thy prime, The proud towers made each wanderer glad, Who hail'd thy sunny clime. Alas, for the fond hope, and dream, And all that won thy children's trust, God cursed and none may now redeem, Pale city of the dust! How the dim visions throng the soul, When twilight broods upon thy waste; The clouds of wo from o'er thee roll, The stir of life is brightening round, And mirth and revelry resound |