THE FLIGHT OF YEARS.

Whose gleams flash'd out a moment o'er the earth,
And faded into nothingness. The dream
Of high devotion-beauty's bright array--
And life's deep idol memories—all have pass'd
Like the cloud-shadows on a starlight stream,
Or a soft strain of music, when the winds
Are slumbering on the billōw.

172. THE FLIGHT OF YEARS-CONCLUDED.

1. YET, why muse

2.

3.

Upon the past with sorrow? Though the year
Has gone to blend with the mysterious tide
Of old Eternity, and borne along

Upon its heaving breast a thousand wrecks
Of glory and of beauty-yet, why mourn
That such is destiny?

Another year

Succeedeth to the past—in their bright round
The seasons come and go-the same blue arch,
That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yĕt-
The same pure stars that we have loved to watch,
Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour,
Like lilies on the tomb of day-and still

Man will remain, to dream as he hath dream'd,
And mark the air with passion.

Love will spring
From the lone tomb of old Affections-Hope,
And Joy, and great Ambition will rise up
As they have risen-and their deeds will be
Brighter than those engraven on the scroll
Of parted centuries. Even now the sea
Of coming years, beneath whose mighty waves
Life's great events are heaving into birth,
Is tossing to and fro, as if the winds

Of heaven were prison'd in its soundless depths.
And struggling to be free.

397

4.

Weep not, that Time
Is passing on-it will ere long reveal
A brighter era' to the nations. Hark!
Along the vales and mountains of the earth
There is a deep, portentous murmuring,
Like the swift rush of subterranean3 streams,
Or like the mingled sounds of earth and air,
When the fierce Tempest, with sonorous wing,
Heaves his deep folds upon the rushing winds,
And hurries onward with his night of clouds
Against the eternal mountains.

'Tis the voice

Of infant Freedom-and her stirring call
Is heard and answer'd in a thousand tones
From every hill-top of her western home-
And lo! it breaks across old Occan's flood-
And "Freedom! Freedom!" is the answering shout
Of nations starting from the spell of years.

6. The day-spring!-see!-'tis brightening in the heavens!
The watchmen of the night have caught the sign-
From tower to tower the signal-fires flash free-
And the deep watch-word, like the rush of seas
That heralds the volcano's bursting flame,

7.

Is sounding o'er the earth.

Bright years of hope

And life are on the wing!-Yon glorious bow

Of Freedom, bended by the hand of God,

6

Is spanning Time's dark surges. Its high Arch,

A type of Love and Mercy on the cloud,

E' ra, a fixed point of time from which any number of years is begun to be counted; a number of years, following each other in order, commencing at a fixed time, or contained between two fixed points of time. ——2 Por tent' ous, foretokening ill; wonderful; threatening.—3 Sub ter1a' ne an, being under the surface of the earth.-*So no' rous, giving a full sound; loud-sounding. Spån' ning, measuring or reaching from one side to the other.- Surges (sårj' ez), rising billows; great waves rolling above the general surface of the water.

6

THE DECAY OF NATURE AND OF MAN.

399

Telis, that the many storms of human life

Will pass in silence, and the sinking waves,
Gathering the forms of glory and of peace,
Reflect the undimm'd brightness of the Heavens.

GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

173. THE DECAY OF NATURE AND OF MAN.

HERE is an eventide in the day-an hour when the sun re

THERE

tires, and the shadows fall, and when nature assumes the appearances of soberness and silence. It is an hour from which everywhere the thoughtless fly, as peopled only in their imagination with images of gloom; it is the hour, on the other hand, which, in every age, the wise have loved, as bringing with it sentiments and affections more valuable than all the splendors of the day.

2. Its first impression is to still all the turbulence' of thought or passion which the day may have brought forth. We follōw, with our eye, the descending sun; we listen to the decaying sounds of labor and of toil; and when all the fields are silent around us, we feel a kindred stillness breathe upon our souls, and calm them from the agitations of society.

3. From this first impression, there is a second, which naturally follows it. In the day we are living with men ; in the eventide we begin to live with nature; we see the world withdrawn from us, the shades of night darken over the habitations of men, and we feel ourselves alone. It is an hour, fitted, as it would seem, by Him who made us, to still, but with gentle hand, the throb of every unruly passion, and the ardor of every impure desire, and, while it vails for a time the world that misleads us, to awaken in our hearts those legitimate2 affections which the heat of the day may have dissolved.

4. There is yet a further scene it presents to us. While the world withdraws from us, and while the shades of the evening darken upon our dwellings, the splendors of the firmament3 come

'Turbulence (ter' bu lêns), confusion; commotion; troubled state.— 'Le git' i måte, lawful; true; be.onging to their nature.-3 Firm'ament, the heavens.

forward to our view. In the moments when earth is overshad owed, heaven opens to our cyes the radiance' of a sublimer being; our hearts follow the successive splendors of the scene; and while we forget, for a time, the obscurity of earthly concerns, we feel that there are "yet greater things than these," and that we “have a Father who dwelleth in the heavens, and who yet deigneth to consider the things that are upon earth.”

5. There is, in the second place, an "eventide" in the year— a season, as we now witness, when the sun withdraws his propitious light-when the winds arise, and the leaves fall, and nature around us seems to sink into decay. It is said, in general, to be the season of melancholy; and if, by this word, be meant that it is the time of solemn and of serious thought, it is undoubtedly the season of melancholy; yet it is a melancholy so soothing, so gentle in its approach, and so prophetic3 in its influence, that they who have known it feel, instinctively, that it is the doing of God, and that the heart of man is not thus finely touched but to fine issues.4

6. It is a season, in the first place, which tends to wean us from the passions of the world. Every passion, however base or unworthy, is yet eloquent. It speaks to us of present enjoy ment; it tells us of what men have done and what men may do, and it supports us everywhere by the example of many around When we go out into the fields in the evening of the year, a different voice approaches us. We regard, even in spite of ourselves, the still, but steady advances of time.

us.

7. A few days ago, and the summer of the year was grateful, and every element was filled with life, and the sun of heaven seemed to glory in his ascendant.5 He is now enfeebled in his power; the desert no more "blossoms like the rose;" the song of joy is no more heard among the branches; and the earth is strewed with that foliage which once bespoke the magnificence of summer. Whatever may be the passions which society has awakened, we pause amid this apparent desolation of nature

1 Ra' di ance, vivid brightness; splendor.- Propitious (pro pish' us), highly favorable.- Pro phet' ic, containing a previous assertion of a future event.-* Issue (ish' shů), effect; result.- As cênd' ant, superio influence; elevation.. 6 Mag nif' i cence, grandeur of appearance, splendor of show or state.

THE DECAY OF NATURE AND OF MAN.

401

We sit down in the lodge "of the wayfaring man in the wilderness," and we feel that all we witness is the emblem of our own fate.

8. Such, also, in a few years, will be our own condition. The blossoms of our spring, the pride of our summer, will also fade into decay; and the pulse that now beats high with virtuous or with vicious desire, will graduatry sink, and then must stop forever. We rise from our meditations with hearts softened and subdued, and we return into life as into a shadowy scene, where we have "disquieted ourselves in vain."

174. THE DECAY OF NATURE AND OF MAN-CONCLUDED.

IT i

T is the peculiar character of the melancholy which such seasons excite, that it is general. It is not an individual remonstrance; it is not the harsh language of human wisdom, which too often insults while it instructs us. When the winds of autumn sigh around us, their voice speaks not to us only, but to our kind; and the lesson they teach us is not that we alone decay, but that such also is the fate of all the generations of man. "They are the green leaves of the tree of the desert, which perish and are renewed."

2. In such a sentiment there is a kind of sublimity mingled with its melancholy our tears fall, but they fall not for ourselves; and, although the train of our thoughts may have begun with the selfishness of our own concerns, we feel that, by the ministry of some mysterious power, they end in awakening our concern for every being that lives.

3. Yet a few years, we think, and all that now bless, or all that now convulse, humanity, will also have perished. The mightiest pageantry' of life will pass; the loudest notes of triumph or of conquest will be silent in the grave; the wicked, wherever active, "will cease from troubling," and the weary, wherever suffering, "will be at rest." Under an impression so profound, we feel our own hearts better. The cares, the animos

'Pa' geant ry, something by way of ostentation or show; pompous exhibition.