THE OLD AGE OF CONTINENTS. 



" r I "lIME writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow," said 

 -- Byron, as he laid his hand upon old ocean's mane, 

 " Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now." Byron 

 had wandered in poetic reverie among the vestiges of an- 

 cient empires, and sighed to think how the greatest works 

 of human genius dissolve to dust. He had saddened, per- 

 haps, at the thought of his own inevitable fate, and fancied 

 that in the " deep and dark blue ocean " only could be 

 discerned " the image of eternity." Had Byron learned 

 that the seven hills themselves, on which had sat imperial 

 Rome, were but the vestiges of an older order of things, 

 and that even solid continents have crumbled like the 

 Coliseum, a deeper tinge would have colored his habitual 

 melancholy. Happy had it been for Byron could he have 

 practiced the belief in the existence and eternity of his 

 own spirit, which he sometimes confessed, for there is 

 nothing but spirit which bears " the image of eternity." 

 The " everlasting hills," the fancied types of solidity 

 and endurance, are but a passing phase in the history 

 of terrestrial matter. The mountain's sullen brow has 

 frowned where quiet vales expand themselves to the morn- 

 ing light, and fields and cities smile where rugged cliffs 

 and abysmal gorges long delayed the advent of a race 

 that had been heralded through the geologic ages. 



Even continents have their life-time. They germinate; 

 they grow; they attain to full expansion and beauty; they 



