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THE PILGRIMS OF THE WORLD.

WILLIAM HOWITT.

I SEE a city of the East,

A city great and wide ;
The evening sunlight richly falls

On its pinnacles of pride.

Its marble founts and porticoes,

Its towers and temples vast, And its pillars of memorial tall,

Shadows of beauty cast.

The murmur of its multitudes

Is like the ocean's voice; Yet may'st thou hear the children's cries,

That in streets and squares rejoice.

How glorious looks that antique town!

How pleasant is its din! But the evening falls—the gates are closed,

And have shut three strangers in.

Their steps are faint, their garbs are quaint,

Their travel has been sore :
With what a wild and hungry glance

They stalk by every door!

On goes the first-What cries are those ?

I seem at once to hear

Rebellious shouts, despairing rage,

Wo, agony, and fear.

The second, with a mutter'd curse,

Down tower and house has hurl'd; And the third has left a silence there,

That shall outlast the world.

Mine eye is on a broad, rich realm,

On pleasant fields and downs-
On beaten roads that run, like veins,

Unto a thousand towns.

What green and cattle-traversed hills !

What old majestic woods !
How lightly glide those merchant-sails

Along the gleaming floods !

But that pilgrim three !that fearful three !

Again I see them, there!
And banners rise, and dying cries,

And darkness, and despair.

What cursed vision have I seen ?

Is this the land they paced ?
Thiswhere the ruins lie in heaps

Along the wormwood waste ?

This—where the wild ass souffs the wind,

The silent ostrich stands;
And the column, like a ruin'd king,

Frowns proudly on the sands ?

A home! there is a happy home!

An old, ancestral tower ; And blessed is the family

That peoples it this hour.

Honours their valiant fathers won, .

Fair are their lands and wide ;
But the love that is in their kindred souls,

That is their wealth and pride.

Now vengeance on the wandering fiends!

Hither, too, are they come!
I see them lowering at the gate,

And a shadow wraps that home.

Oh! there are tears-wild, burning tears,

Terror, and scorn, and hate ; Mad words, dark looks, sad breaking hearts,

And partings desperate.

Can no one stop those wizards curst?

Can no one break their power ?
The green boughs shrivel as they pass,

Their footsteps scorch the flower.

Stand back! stand back! thou desperate man!

Wouldst thou their progress thwart? Those feet have stood in Adam's bower ;

Those hands laid waste his heart.

Those gaunt forms round the world have gone,

Through centuries of guilt,

Pulling down what the wise have framed,

And what the mighty built.

Children of boary Eld, they hold

This groaning earth in fee,
While Time shall stretch his weary wing

Towards the timeless sea.

Stand back! for who may cross the path

Of creatures void of breath?
Stand back ! for who may dare the power

Of Sin, Decay, and Death?

THE TWO VOICES.

MRS. HEMANS.

Death and its twofold aspect:-Wintry, one,
Cold, sullen, blank, from Hope and Joy shut out;
The other, which the ray divine hath touch'd,
Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring.

Wordsworth.
Two solemn voices, in a funeral strain,
Met, as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain

Meet in the sky : “Thou art gone hence!" one sang—“our light is flown, Our Beautiful, that seem'd too much our own,

Ever to die!

" Thou art gone hence ! Our joyous hills among Never again to pour thy soul in song,

When spring-flowers rise ! Never thy friend's familiar step to meet, With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet

Of thy glad eyes.

“Thou art gone home, gone home !" then high and

clear
Warbled that other voice" thou hast no tears

Again to shed !
Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain,
Never, weigh'd down by memory's clouds, again

To bow thy head.

Thou art gone homel-Oh! early crown'd and blest ! Where could the love of that deep heart find rest

With aught below?
Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay,
All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away-

Thrice blest to go !”.

Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like voice of grief-
“Thou art gone hence! Alas! that aught so brief,

So loved should be !
Thou tak'st our summer hence !- the flower, the

tone, The music of our being, all in one

Depart with thee!

"Fair form, young spirit, morning-vision fled !
Can'st thou be of the dead, the awful dead?

The dark unknown ?
Yes ! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall,
Never again to light up hearth or hall,

Thy smile is gone !"

“Home, home !" once more th' exulting voice arose : “Thou art gone homel from that divine repose

Never to roam!

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