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His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds,
But yon lone bark
They crowd the stand,
Long, with straining eyes
And can ye deem it strange That from their planting such a branch should bloom As nations envy?-Would a germ, embalmed With prayer's pure tear-drops, strike no deeper root Than that which mad ambition's hand doth strew
Upon the winds, to reap the winds again?
Its early clusters, crushed
“I REPOSED my weary pilgrim-limbs at last in Rome. Rome!-once the centre of the world, through which its destiny vibrated, like the crimson gush of man's existence in the human heart! How fallen now !how sad, how desolate, how weak, how ruined ! Yet who can stand in the hallowed spot of Rome's ancient power and grandeur, but with silent awe and wonder ! Rome is great and powerful still; but the pasteboard show of marshalled monks and gilded priests adds noth
ing to her greatness, and augments not her grandeur. She is great in ruin!-great in the glorious acheivments of another age. Her power and influence among the kingdoms and principalities of the world, have long since passed away; and her sceptre has been broken.
But still, all nations must and do go there, to bend before the altar of genius, and to pay a willing homage to her treasures of art. There are the deathless tints, the immortal touches of Michael Angelo's gigantic hand; there too, are the divine and angelic impressions of Raphael; there but why should I attempt an
enumeration of a thousand names, consecrated to genius, and hallowed by antiquity, whose glorious works so richly adorn the Eternal City! They are known to all, but not by all appreciated.
I looked down from the brink of the deep crater's mouth into the black and fiery bosom of Vesuvius, where the raging flames, old as time itself, have maddened into fury and awful storms of molten anger, burying fair cities deep beneath their glowing wrath! What a scene ! I turned my eyes upon the fair blue waters, so sweetly spread at the base, like the smooth surface of a burnished shield, flashing back the rays of the sun in all the glory that he sends them.
It was a lovely day in spring, when the flowers were young and bursting into blossom, diffusing their perfumes over the gay, embellished, vine-clad hills. The bay of Naples then reposed in beauty; there was no breeze to curl its surface, and the warm sun smiled gently upon it. O! how bright the prospect over its blue expanse! The city, too, was glorious in the thin blue ethereal vapor, lightly tinging the swelling domes and lofty spires of sunny Naples.
I came down from the mountain, and entered the buried cities of the plains. Pompeii and Herculaneum! once gay cities-long buried beneath the red crackling fires of the volcano's wrath! How little do we know of those beings who once gaily trod the well-worn pavements of those silent streets! They have gone; and myriads before, too, have stepped into the awful crater of eternity! And those cities have slept beneath the black cinders of Vesuvius' fires for many centuries; and now they open their ponderous gates and sealed treasures to the world's astonished gaze!
ANCIENT ROME-POMPEII.-[CONCLUDED.) And lo, a voice from Italy! It comes like the stirring of the breeze upon the mountains! It floats in majesty like the echo of the thunder! It breathes solemnity like a sound from the tombs! Let the nations hearken ; for the slumber of ages is broken, and the buried voice of antiquity speaks again from the gray ruins of Pompeii.
Roll back the tide of eighteen hundred years. At the foot of the vine-clad Vesuvius stands a royal city; the stately Roman walks its lordly streets, or banquets in the palaces of its splendor. The bustle of busied thousands is there, you may hear it along the thronged quays; it rises from the amphitheatre and the forum. It is the home of luxury, of gaiety, and of joy. There togaed royalty drowns itself in dissipation, the lion roars over the martyred Christian, and the bleeding gladiator dies at the beck of applauding spectators. It is a careless, a dreaming, a devoted city.
There is a blackness in the horizon, and the earthquake is rioting in the bowels of the mountain ! Hark! a roar, a crash! and the very foundations of the eternal hills are belched forth in a sea of fire ! Wo for that fated city! The torrent comes surging like the mad ocean,-it boils above wall and tower, palace and fountain, and Pompeii is a city of tombs!
Ages roll on. Silence, darkness and desolation are in the halls of buried granduer. The forum is voiceless, and the pompous mansions are tenanted by skeletons! Lo! other generations live above the dust of long lost glory, and the slumber of the dreamless city is forgotten.
Pompeii beholds a resurrection! As summoned by the blast of the first trumpet, she hath shaken from her beauty the ashes of centuries and once more looks forth upon the world, sullied and sombre, but interesting still. Again upon her arches, her courts and her collonades, the sun lingers in splendor, but not as erst when the reflected lustre from her marbles dazzled like the glory of his own true beam. There, in their gloomy bold
. ness, stand her palaces, but the song of carousal is hushed forever. You may behold the places of her fountains, but you will hear no murmur - they are as the water courses of the desert. There too, are her gardens, but the barrenness of long antiquity is theirs.