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And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of!
Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all:
And, thus, the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action!


ALL ruins are delightful. Antiquity is a mighty sorceress, that flings a beauty and an interest around whatever she touches, hallowing even the most common-place objects to the contemplative eye! When we look at any structure, however humble, that is fast crumbling to decay, we regard it with feelings which can be traced only to the influence of the fancy. We see it as it now stands; but the mind insensibly turns from present to past times, and takes a pleasure in contrasting what is with what once was. We think of the hands that built it, and which must now be mouldering beneath the sod-we imagine youth and beauty

that may have sprung up and flourished within its walls, or

warm and honest hearts that may have beat in the bosoms of age and poverty-the happy faces that the winter's eve may have assembled round its hearth—the merry voices that may have sounded through its lowly chambers; and the question involuntarily suggests itself (and one which we cannot answer), "Where are they now?" And if such thoughts be aroused by even the simplest relics of by-gone days, how are they elevated and heightened by the contemplation of some of the grander remains of architectural pride! Let us pass from the turmoil of the city into the solemn silence of nature. When pleasure is weaving her

brightest spells in the crowded and dazzling halls, and the merry music hardly keeps pace with the merrier feet of the dancers, forsake for a season the noise and glitter of such a scene, and come with me into the solitude I love best. Now we have left the hum of men far behind us, and we stand alone together on the side of a breezy mountain. See! the morning dawns; and we can catch the first faint streaks of her ruby light, gleaming through the scattered columns of that ruined church. How sublimely beautiful is this spot, hallowed by these relics of sacred grandeur! Do not speak, but look around you with that intense holiness of feeling so well in unison with the place. The old sanctuary is entirely unroofed; its only ceiling now is the grey sky; its guardian spirit that single pale star, that must soon fade before the coming of the mightier orb! Let us take a lesson from this; earth may change or decay; trust not to its stability: heaven is sure, confide in it. The long, arched windows are o'ercanopied by the hanging ivy -meet emblem of man's ambition; that, when it has gained the wished-for summit, can merely look down again in drooping despondency and disappointment, that it can mount no farther. How fantastic is the massy gateway, with its fringes of tall grass and wall-flower clustering above and around it! Here we find a picture in the vegetable world-which in the animal creation is but too rare-a type of strong and faithful friendship, that strikes its roots the deeper, the more desolating the ruin of its object. We have passed the portal, and reach the altar-stone, hoary with its partial covering of brown moss. Hush! methinks I hear the low sighing of the organ, and the sweet anthem of the sister choristers! I see the benign countenance of the venerable pastor, in the midst of the whole assembly of his worshipping people. Here is youth and loveliness, forgetful of its smiles and innocent joys, kneeling in prayer and praise, with the meek simplicity of unspotted hearts.

Here is bold and vigorous manhood, unmindful of the fever
and fret of life, casting aside, for a season, all the vast plans
and projects of his mighty and varied ambition; acknow-
ledging the utter feebleness of human efforts, and bowing
in suppliant dependence on a loftier power. Here is wan
and wrinkled age, weary of the cares and sorrows of
existence, raising the broken spirit and causing all its hopes
to bloom afresh in the exercise of a lively faith, and feeling
already a peace and a happiness that is the best earnest of
future bliss. Ha! did you hear the screech of the owl from
his home in the mouldering tower? Was it but a mockery
of the senses, and are these walls tenantless? Where are
they departed who once consecrated this temple with their
pure devotion? Gone-and never to return!-to that
region of spirits where thou and I, whether Jew or Gentile,
must soon follow. Shall we go back now to the glare of
the festival? No; let us rather sit down on this
grey stone,
and reason together. What more fitting to wake meditation
than these holy ruins? We shall rest here:

"And thoughts will come of mystic mood,
To make in this deep solitude
Eternity of time!”


Oн, thou hast reason, Elgin! to be proud
Of thy Cathedral;—'tis a noble pile!
And holy now, as when the anthem loud
And prayer ascended from the pure and vile
Erst gather'd round its altar! for its aisle
Is now by Nature carpeted-its walls

By Heaven's own arch o'er-canopied;—and while
The Stranger marks its ruins, he recals

A homily worth aught that from the mitred falls!

Perchance he gazeth on a broken arch,

A ruin'd column, or forsaken altar,

Or lightly treadeth, in his thoughtful march,

The tomb of some proud prelate, who could palter
Himself perhaps, yet spare no lay defaulter;
And oh! the Pilgrim may from these, I ween,
Withouten priest, or prayer-book, or psalter,
Perceive how frail man is, and aye hath been,
And learn to look beyond this world to the unseen!

Perchance he thinketh of departed ages,
And myriad souls evanish'd from the earth;
In mental eye, calls up the fools and sages,
Who came and went, as if they neʼer had birth;
Wanders in fancy to the mouldering hearth
Of peasant long departed, or of peer-
Beholds all desolate, where life and mirth

And gladness reign'd through many a bygone year,
And then he trusts that Heaven hath all that's wanting here.

Still thou hast reason, Elgin! to be proud
Of thy Cathedral; for it shows man's power
As well as impotence:-oh! not the shroud
Prepared for him who hath his little hour
On life's stage strutted, nor the wither'd flower
Erewhile so full of loveliness, displays

Of frailty such an emblem; yet in tower,
And arch, and area, may be seen the traits

And impress of the mind, which dies not nor decays!

Yes, there is mind—apparent not alone
In the gigantic grandeur of its plan—
But e'en each curious and fretted stone

Bear mind's rich stamp, and shows indeed what man
Hath power to accomplish--though a very span

Of life for these and all his works be given!
True, they are not the noblest which he can
Or ought to aim at, as the heir of heaven,

Yet well they mark his power-ay, such old ruins even!

And many a generation hath gone by,

Since thine old walls, majestic Pile! were based;

And many a race will yet spring up and die,
Ere thou shalt be, old as thou art, erased!

But thou hast not been useless-man hath praised
His Maker, and the troubled soul's been calm'd
Within thy courts!-e'en now, though old and crazed,
Thy ruins, mute yet eloquent, have psalm'd,
And in one breast at least fine feelings have embalm'd!


HARK, how the church-bells' thundering harmony
Stuns the glad ear!-tidings of joy have come,
Good tidings of great joy!-two gallant ships
Met on the element: they met, they fought
A desperate fight!-good tidings of great joy!
Old England triumph'd!—yet another day
Of glory for the ruler of the waves!

For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause,
They have their passing paragraphs of praise,
And are forgotten. There was one who died
In that day's glory, whose obscurer name
No proud historian's page will chronicle:
Peace to his honest soul! I read his name,
'Twas in the list of slaughter, and bless'd God
The sound was not familiar to mine ear.
But it was told me after, that this man
Was one whom lawful violence had forced
From his own home and wife and little ones,

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