Go, tear them from the jaws of the lion and the wolf of Parthia, their fitting tomb!

You, too, son of Vespasian, may be commissioned for the punishment of a stiff-necked and rebellious people. You may scourge our naked vice by the force of arms; and then you may return to your own land exulting in the conquest of the fiercest enemy of Rome. But shall you escape the common fate of the instrument of evil?-shall you see a peaceful old age?-Shall a son of yours ever sit upon the throne?-Shall not rather some monster of your blood efface the memory of your virtues, and make Rome, in bitterness of soul, curse the Flavian name?

THE END OF THE WORLD.

THERE has been a time when our planet could not sustain beings of our species; and once again the time will come, when it will cease to be the dwellingplace of mankind, and will either assume a new form or disappear from the rank of stars.

The earth bears in its bosom destroying powers; and bodies float around and near it, which threaten its dissolution.

Therefore, thou wilt not subsist for ever, thou cradle of our race; thou land of blessing and cursing; thou grave full of joy and life; thou paradise full of pain and death; thou scene for thousands of years of our wisdom and folly, our virtues and vices. No, thou canst not last for ever! Thou thyself also, like every thing that thou bearest, must obey thy law, the law of mutability and destruction.

Possibly thou mayest continue thy course for thousands of years longer with strength and gladness, attended by thy moon and led by thy shining sun. Possibly thou mayest still for thousands of years maintain the succession of days and nights, summer and winter, in invariable order, and see the generations of man come and go.

Finite art thou, and transitory – as thy children are finite and transitory. For that which is created is not eternal and imperishable, as the Creator is eternal and immutable. For thee also a limit is fixed. Even thy long day will decline. He that formed thee will change thee: he that created thee will destroy thee; even thy strength shall decay; even thy structure shall fall into ruins; even thy law and thy order shall be no more.

On all sides, wherever we turn our eyes, we are met by images of decay. History is a large silent field, covered with ruins and graves. What we bear in the memory is past and gone. What we built we see totter; and in the humiliating feeling of diminished and wasting energy of life, the sad idea of approaching dissolution often occurs. But we are never more forcibly affected by the feeling of the vanity of worldly things, than when we transport ourselves in imagination to the day of the falling world, and hover, as it were, over the ruins of our destroyed planet.

The earth has now filled the measure of its years, and its time is come; the conflict of the elements begins, and in the mighty struggle all the works of men perish, and the last of our race are buried under the ruins of falling palaces and cottages; and not only the works of men, but the works of nature also come to an end; the barriers of beach and shore are

broken through; the mountains, thousands of years old, bend their heads; all life stiffens; the beautiful structure of plants and animals is resolved into rough matter; the powers of destruction rule, wild and lawless. And now the conflict is ended; now the earth is again waste and void, and darkness is on the face of the deep.

THE OCEAN.

LIKENESS of heaven! agent of power;
Man is thy victim; shipwrecks thy dower!
Spices and jewels, from valley and sea,
Armies and banners are buried in thee!

What are the riches of Mexico's mines,

To the wealth that far down in the deep water shines? The proud navies that cover the conquering westThou flingest them to death with one heave of thy breast?

From the high hills that view thy wreck-making shore,

When the bride of the mariner shrieks at thy roar; When, like lambs in the tempest, or mews in the blast,

O'er ridge broken billows the canvass is cast;

How humbling to one with a heart and a soul,
To look on thy greatness and list to its roll;
To think how that heart in cold ashes shall be,
While the voice of eternity rises from thee!

Yes! where are the cities of Thebes and of Tyre?
Swept from the nations like sparks from the fire;

The glory of Athens, the splendour of Rome,
Dissolved-and for ever like dew in the foam.

But thou art almighty-eternal-sublimeUnweakened, unwasted-twin brother of time! Fleets, tempests, nor nations, thy glory can bow! As the stars first beheld thee, still chainless art thou!

But hold! when thy surges no longer shall roll, And that firmament's length is drawn back like a scroll;

Then-then shall the spirit that sighs by thee now, Be more mighty-more lasting more chainless than thou!

THE FOLLY AND WICKEDNESS OF WAR.

Two poor mortals, elevated with the distinction of a golden bauble on their heads, called a crown, take offence at each other, without any reason, or with the very bad one of wishing for an opportunity of aggrandizing themselves by making reciprocal depredations. The creatures of the court, and the leading men of the nation, who are usually under the influence of the court, resolve (for it is their interest) to support their royal master, and are never at a loss to invent some colourable pretence for engaging the nation in war. Taxes of the most burdensome kind are levied, soldiers are collected, so as to leave a paucity of husbandmen; reviews and encampments succeed; and at last fifteen or twenty thousand men meet on a plain, and coolly shed each other's blood, without the smallest personal animosity or the shadow of a provocation. The kings, in the mean

time, and the grandees, who have employed these poor innocent victims to shoot bullets at each other's heads, remain quietly at home, and amuse themselves, in the intervals of balls, hunting schemes, and pleasures of every species, with reading at the fireside, and over a cup of chocolate, the despatches from the army, and the news in the Extraordinary Gazette. If the king of Prussia were not at the head of some of the best troops in the world, he would be judged more worthy of being tried, and condemned, at the Old Bailey, than any shedder of blood who ever died by a halter. But he is a king; but he is a hero;-those names fascinate us, and we enrol the butcher of mankind among their benefactors.

When one considers the dreadful circumstances that attend even victories, one cannot help being a little shocked at the exultation which they occasion. I have often thought it would be a laughable scene, if there were not too much of the melancholy in it, when a circle of eager politicians have met to congratulate each other on a piece of good news just arrived. Every eye sparkles with delight; every voice is raised in announcing the happy event. And what

is the cause of all this joy? and for what are our windows illuminated, bonfires kindled, bells rung, and feasts celebrated? We have had a successful engagement. We have left a thousand of the enemy dead on the field of battle, and only nine hundred of our countrymen. Charming news! it was a glorious battle! But before you give a loose to your raptures, pause awhile; and consider, that to every one of these nineteen hundred, life was no less sweet than it is to you; that to the far greater part of them there probably were wives, fathers, mothers,