OX A DRAWING OF HOME. 27 



-Nor of labouring pioneers, 



A multitude with spades and axes armed, 

 To lay hills plain, fell woods, or vallies fill, 

 Or where plain was, raise hill, or overlay 

 With bridges rivers proud, as with a yoke." 



MILTON. 



One word to Mr. Heraud before we let him go. We have dealt 

 out to him strict and severe justice ; of more worth, let us assure him, 

 than the base and servile flattery which has been spit out upon him 

 by those worst enemies his best friends. This praise appears to be 

 welcome to him, for he has advertised it with no common diligence. 

 It will avail him nought. If he wishes to write with respectable abi- 

 lity for he can never be great let him put it away forthwith. 



If he do not, the trunk and the tartlet must have him at last. 





ON A DRAWING OF ROME. 



I HAD a dream of a distant land, 



Palaces rose up on either hand ; 



Tow'r above tow'r, and pile above pile, 



Arches and columns in long defile; 



Streams of sunset on water fell, 



Which sparkled and danced like a fairy well ; 



Bending willows, and tow'ring trees, 



Like plumes of warriors waved in the breeze. 



The air was balmy, the earth was bright, 



So gorgeous the scene that it dimmed the sight. 



But in that mass of splendour lay 



A spot of gloom in the warm sun's ray ; 



It told of sorrow, it told of doom 



Of early death 'twas a youthful tomb ! 



And all that enshrined that marble frail 



Was a heart as cold, and a cheek as pale ! 



Art was exhausted to make it fair, 

 But darkness had shar'd it with cold despair: 

 Grief had bow'd o'er it in speechless woe 

 To think of the ruin which lurk'd below. 

 I thought not again of that scene of pride, 

 For a voice of warning rose at my side. 

 List to its tones, oh list ! arid think 

 How very narrow is life's lov'd link. 



" High are these tow'rs yet glory not; 

 Time passes o'er them, and they are forgot; 

 Noble the trees, yet a tempest's rush 

 Their trunks will wither, their whisp'ring hush. 

 Look on the sky, it will last for aye ; 

 Turn to the waters they fade not away; 

 Thy body is youthful 'twill turn to earth ; 

 But the soul will live in the land of its birth ! " 

 September, 1831. E. B. 



