Reared on her mighty walls; she that o'erlooked
Cities and tribes of men, and warrior bands,
Vassals and tributaries, countless stores

Of wealth, the springs of glory and dominion
Flowing beneath her feet,-and called them hers!
Here was her throne:-Alas! how desert now,
How silent is the scene! Still as the grave,
And rightly still,-for 'tis a deep wide grave,
Holding the relics of fallen majesty!

Come and contemplate! come and read the fate Of fallen Babel, on her sepulchre !

Here are a thousand hillocks, where there stood,
Long years ago, a thousand palaces ;

Here are long mounds of ruin, stretching on
Where once extended Babel's busy streets,
Thronged in their day with wealthy citizens,
Merchants from other lands, captives and free,
Lords of the east, and princely visitors,
Who came to gaze on mighty Babylon.
There are the shapeless ruins, rising high,
And sadly showing where in other days
The far-famed gardens of great Babel rose,
To claim the wonder of the universe.

The strong huge walls, that once defied her foes,
Long leveled, and their fragments deeply sunk,
Are now but faintly traced 'mid broken mounds,
And scattered masses spared as yet by time.
Amid these ruins, and above them, still
Stands one stupendous pile, though but a wreck,
A moldering monument of what it was-
And this was once the temple of great Bel,
The idol of Chaldea; broken now,
Confounded, and forever overthrown.

Such now is Babylon! A dwelling-place
For beasts and monsters, as the prophets said;
A desert where the owl and ostrich meet,
The lion stalks in gloomy sovereignty,
The bittern finds a marsh, a stagnant pool,
Left by the floods within her cavities:

Serpents, and creeping things, and reptiles now
Dwell in the caves of moldering Babylon!

But still, amid these lone and awful wrecks,
These poor remains of glory all gone by,
In solitude and silence wanders on⚫

The great Euphrates-monarch of the streams,
Majestic, sole survivor, still the same,

Unhurt, unchanged by all the woes poured out
On guilty Babylon:-he lives like one
Left of a mighty race, alone and sad.

His banks are hoary with the whistling reeds,

The waving willows fringe his borders still,
Where the poor captive Israelites would sit,
And weep for Zion:-where their silent harps
Hung o'er the stream, nor gave one plaintive sound,
Save when the wind swept o'er their broken chords,
And made wild music as the captives wept.

And these are all that tell of Babylon !

The foot of man hath rarely trodden there,
And never staid. These fragments scattered round,
These birds and savage beasts, this solitude,
This death-like stillness, and this widowed stream,
All witness to the world the awful fate

Of her, whose crimes had mounted up to heaven,
And drawn the vengeance down which seers foretold,
And long had been accomplished.-" She shall be-
That mighty Babylon, Chaldea's pride,

Glorious among the kingdoms of the earth-
No more inhabited forever; nor

Shall the Arabian's tent be fastened there:

Serpents shall fill her houses, beasts shall roam
Free in her temples and wide palaces;

They that pass by shall hiss at all her plagues,
And in astonishment exclaim, 'How changed
Is Babylon! how lone and desert now

Among the nations!' None shall build her up;
Forever she shall lie, wasted, and spoiled,
And desolate-the Lord hath spoken it!"

BEGINNING AGAIN.

When sometimes our feet grow weary
On the rugged hills of life,

The path stretching long and dreary
With trial and labor rife,

We pause on the upward journey,

Glancing backward o'er valley and glen,

And sigh with an infinite longing

To return and "begin again."

For behind is the dew of the morning
With all,its freshness and light,

And before are doubts and shadows,
And the chill and gloom of the night;

And we think of the sunny places
We passed so carelessly then,

And we sigh, "O Father, permit me
To return and begin again."

We think of the many dear ones,
Whose lives touched ours, at times,
Whose loving thoughts and smiles
Float back like vesper chimes;
And sadly remember burdens
We might have lightened then,-
Ah, gladly would we ease them
Could we "begin again!"

And yet, how vain the seeking!
Life's duties press all of us on,

And who would shrink from the burden,
Or sigh for the sunshine that's gone?
And it may be, not far on before us,
Wait fairer places than then;
Our paths may lead by still waters,
Though we may not "begin again."

Yes, upward and onward forever
Be our path on the hills of life!
But ere long a radiant dawning
Will glorify trial and strife,
And Our Father's hand will lead us
Tenderly upward then,-

In the joy and peace of the better world
He'll let us "begin again."

LIGHTS AND SHADES.-MRS. HEMANS.

The gloomiest day hath gleams of light,
The darkest wave hath bright foam near it;
And twinkles through the cloudiest night
Some solitary star to cheer it.

The gloomiest soul is not all gloom,

The saddest hour is not all sadness;

And sweetly o'er the darkest doom

There shines some lingering beam of gladness.

Despair is never quite despair,

Nor life, nor death, the future closes;

And round the shadowy brow of care
Will hope and fancy twine their roses.

THE BUMPKIN'S COURTSHIP.

While on a visit to a relation in the celebrated city of York, I was acquainted with an honest farmer in the neighborhood, who, having resided there from a youth, was respected, and admitted into the society of most of the country gentlemen. He was a constant visitor at the house of my uncle; and his conversation, teeming with merry stories which served to delight the ear at the expense of our sides, told in his simple, unadorned manner, could not but render his society agreeable to me.

Honest old Farmer Burton had an only son, who had reached the age of forty without entering into the matrimonial state; he was, in fact, as true a picture of a country bumpkin as ever graced a pitchfork. One day our discourse happening to turn upon the said bumpkin, I expressed my surprise that he should never have had the good fortune to get married. "Why," said the farmer, "it be not the fau't o' his face, I reckon; for he be as pratty a lad as here and there be one; ees, an' he ha' had his chances, by my feckins! and, had he been as 'cute as mysen, he might ha' had a buxom lass, with no little o' money either." This excited my curiosity; and I requested the farmer to acquaint me with the particulars, which he did as follows:

"You mun know, that my son used to work wi' me in the field; that is, he drived plough, sowed, and reaped, and all other 'cultural works loike; and a steady, hard-working lad he wur too; till all ou a sudden he becomed lazy loike, and wouldn't work at all. So I couldn't tell what to make on't: if I snubbed un 'twere all the same; and so at last, thinks I to mysen, I'll speak to un about it calmly loike; an' so I did, and axt un what wur the matter wi' un; and so says he, 'Why, I dosen't know disactly, he, he, he! but ever sin' I ha' seed Molly Grundy at our village church, feather, I ha' felt all over in sic' conflagration loike, he, he, he!' 'Why, ye beant in love, be ye?' 'Why, he, he, he! I can't say for sartin; haply I mought; but dang my buttons, feather! if I dosen't think Molly bees in love wi' I, he, he, he!' 'Be she?' says I: 'odds dickens! then you mun mind your p's and q's, lad; for she ha' money. But did she speak to ye!'

'Ees; to be sure she did, and said I wur a pratty lad, he, he, he!' And what answer did you make?' 'Why, I-I—la'ft!' 'Ah, but,' said I, 'you should ha' made love to her.' 'But I don't know how, feather: what be I to say?' 'Why, I'll tell ye. When you see her again, you thus address her: O thou most incomparable of thy sex! Thy eyes of diamond light have pierced my heart's core; thy checks are carnation red; thy lips like coral, thy alabaster skin, thy teeth, good lack! -and graceful mien, have scorched and burned up all the particles of my heart. Deign, then, to dispense thy passions to me alone, thy faithful swain, who is this moment ready to espouse thee, thou irresistible and adorable woman!'" "Well," said I," and did he say so?"

"Why, no," said the farmer: " a sad blunder he made on it, all through his being no scholard; and lost both his sweetheart Molly, and her money into the bargain. When he got to Molly Grundy's, he dropped on both knees, scratched his head, and thus began :

"O Molly Grundy! feather ha' sent I here to dress ye. O thou most unbearable of my sex! Thy eyes of light have pierced my heart sore; thy cheeks are tarnation red; thy lips like mackerel, thy plaster skin, thy teeth so black and hateful and mean,-have scorched and burned up all the articles of my heart. Feign, then, to expend thy passion on me alone thy hateful swine, who is this moment ready to spouse thee, thou detestable and deplorable 'ooman!'”

"Molly Grundy no sooner heard his speech, than she took up a long hair broom, wopped poor Robin out o' the house; and he has never been able to get a wife, or had courage enough to make love to another woman since."

THE MISER.-GEORGE W. CUTTER.

An old man sat by a fireless hearth,
Though the night was dark and chill,
And mournfully over the frozen earth
The wind sobbed loud and shrill.

His locks were gray, and his eyes were gray,
And dim, but not with tears;

And his skeleton form had wasted away
With penury, more than years.