flourished, and mankind stood astonished at the sublimity of her career. But where now is the glory of Greece? Where now is the land of science and of song? Where now are her brave warriors; her illustrious statesmen; her immortal poets? They have gone down the rapid tide of time, and have ceased to exist but on the scroll of fame. The lamp of learning has been extinguished, and mental darkness rests upon the bosom of her land. Gothic ignorance now dwells upon the ruins of Oriental greatness.

In the march of mind, Rome rose on the ruins of Greece, to wave her sceptre over the subjugated world. There Virgil strung his lyre to sing Eneas' fame; and there, Cicero shook the forum with the thunders of his eloquence, and struck terror to the hearts of tyrants. Rome, then, was the mistress of the world, and on her walls waved the flags of all nations. The mighty Hannibal lifted his arm against her, but she crushed it; and Carthage, so long victorious, fell before her.

Cæsar then lived; his path was conquest, and dreadful was the fate of that warrior who dared the vengeance of his arm. But where now is Cæsar?—and where is Cicero? Alas, they have been murdered! And where now is mighty Rome? She has been thrown over the precipice of faction and lost in the whirlpool of anarchy. A barbarian torrent has overrun the blooming gardens of Italy; the Goth and the Vandal have prostrated her glory forever. The brilliant sun of science, that rose on the gardens of Greece, was destined to shine on the ruins of Rome, and then to go down in the night of time to arise in another hemisphere.

In the march of mind, France, plunging into the vortex of a bloody revolution, arrests the attention. Napoleon rose, like a giant from his slumber, and seated himself on the throne of the Bourbons. He pointed the thunder of his artillery at Italy, and she fell before him. He leveled his lightning at Spain and she trembled. He sounded the knell of vengeance on the plains of Austerlitz, and all Europe was at his feet. He was greater than Cæsar; he was greater than Alexander. But where now is the French Emperor? Where now is Napoleon Bonaparte? He has fallen from the throne of the Czars, on which he seated himself in Moscow. The

tremendous military drama has closed, and the great tragedian has left the stage forever. His race was short, but it was brilliant-like the bright meteor that flames along the horizon for a moment, and then disappears. The Lion of England triumphed over the fallen Tiger of Corsica, but his fame is immortal.

The march of mind is now advancing on the shores of America. On the ruins of an Indian empire a great republic has arisen to illuminate the world. But where are the aborigines of the western world? A pilgrim bark, deeply freighted from the East, came darkening on their shores. They yielded not their empire tamely, but they could not stand against the sons of light. With slow and solitary steps they took up their mournful march to the West, and yielded, with a broken heart, their native hills to another race. Before the victorious march of mind, they have been driven from their native haunts, to the margin of the great Pacific.

The great flood of time will roll on until the Aborigines are swept from the face of the earth forever. Ere long, not one lone trace of them will remain, save the mausoleum of the warrior, and the page on which his exploits are recorded. The last child of the forest will soon climb his native mountain to view the setting sun of Indian glory. And there shall he bow his knee, the last time, to the sun as he sinks behind his lonely cottage, and worship the Great Spirit of the waters, and the genius of storm and darkness.

Where the council-fires blazed, the tall temple, dedicated to God, now glitters in the setting sun; and the river, once unrippled but by the Indian canoe, is now white with the sails of commerce. The plowshare hath passed over the bones of the Red Man's ancestors, and the golden harvest waves over their tombs. The march of mind hath been to them the march to the grave. When ages shall have rolled away, and some youth shall ask his agéd sire where the wigwam stood, he shall point to some flourishing city on the banks of the stream where once the Indian hunter bathed and viewed his manly limbs.

By wisdom, industry, and valor, the Republic of the United States has arisen to stand against the world. The

forest has fallen before her hardy sons; the yelling savage has been tamed, and the Lion of England driven from her shores. Her government is superior to any in the world, and her country suffers not in comparison with any on the globe. The gardens of America are richly diversified with hills and dales, mountains and valleys, where Spring walks to strew the earth with flowers, romantic and beautifully sublime. Here are beautiful rivers, smoothly gliding through green meadows or pastoral elegance, where the shepherd hums to his fair one the song of liberty. Here, sparkling fountains roll down the flowery mountain side, and spread a thousand rainbows to the setting sun. Here, the roar of the headlong cataract is heard dashing its foaming billows down the rocks, like the crash of clouds, and stunning the ear with its clamors more tremendous than the roar of whirlwinds and storm.

It was in these scenes of poetry and romance that the Indian hunter once stood and gazed at his image. It was in these scenes that he heard the Great Spirit in the tempest, and saw him in the clouds. It was on the banks of the lonely stream that he bowed down in adoration before the sinking sun. Alas! it was here that he read his doom in the evening skies, and dropped a tear upon his country's tomb. But the council-fire has been extinguished, and the war-dance no longer echoes along the hills. In those beautiful scenes of poetry, the Indian lover no longer bows down and wooes his dusky mate. They have retired before the march of mind, as the shades of night before the brilliant luminary of day.

Liberty has walked forth in her sky-blue cap to charm mankind, and the rays of science and philosophy are shed abroad in the land. The day is rapidly approaching when the glory and grandeur of Greece will be revived in the western world; when America, thrice happy America, shall be denominated the land of science and of song! The idea is irresistible, that this land will yet be illuminated by a lamp of learning not inferior to those which shone on Greece and Rome. Another Homer may arise in the West, to sing the fame of his country, and immortalize himself; and our history may ere long be as romantic as that of Greece and Rome.

There is a tide in human affairs, and there is a tide of empire. It flows in rivers of prosperity until it is full; but when it ebbs, it ebbs forever. It would seem to the contemplative mind, as if there is a certain height to which republics shall aspire, and then be hurled into midnight darkness. The march of mind seems to attain a certain extent, and then return again to barbarism. The sun of science sets on one shore to rise in a happier clime. But, my country, ere thou shalt lay prostrate beneath the foot of tyranny and ignorance, this hand shall have mouldered into dust, and these eyes, which have seen thy glory, closed forever! The ⚫warlike sons of Indian glory sleep in their country's tomb, but that fate is not decreed to those who now tread where the wigwam stood and the council-fire blazed. American glory has but just dawned.

THE CHINESE DINNER.

A fact which occurred during Lord Macartney's embassy to China.

The feast prepared, the splendor round
Allowed the eye no rest;

The wealth of "Ormus and the Ind"
Appeared to greet the guest.

No idle tongue, no converse light,
The solemn silence broke,
Because 'tis famed our Englishman
No word of Chinese spoke.

Now here, now there, he picked a bit
Of what he could not name;

And all he knew was, that in fact,
They made him sick, the same.

Ching-Tau, his host, pressed on each dish,
With polished Chinese grace;

And much Ching thought he relished them,
At every ugly face.

At last he swore he'd eat no more,

('Twas written in his looks!)

"For zounds," said he, "the devil here,

Sends both the meat and cooks!"

But covers changed, he brightened up,
And thought himself in luck,
When close before him, what he saw
Seemed something like a duck.
Still cautions grown, and to be sure,
His brain he set to rack;

66

At length he turned to one behind,
And, pointing, cried “ Quack, quack?"
The Chinese gravely shook his head,
Next made a reverent bow,

And then expressed what dish it was,
By uttering, "Bow, wow, wow!"

FOUR LIVES.-GARNET B. FREEMAN.

We sat in the light of the dying day-
Harold, Johnnie, Allie, and I-
Watching the sunset flush, then fade
From over the earth and sky;
Watching the bars of purple and gold
Grow deeper, then pale, then die.

Harold was tall, and dark, and proud:

His cheek was bronzed by the Indian sun;
And on his bosom there gleamed a star-
The jeweled badge that his sword had won-
For he was a soldier, and this was a prize

From the hand of his king for service done.

John was a soldier too, but he fought

Under a banner of spotless white;
His Legion of Honor, the sign of the Cross;
The leader he followed, the Prince of Light.
His sword was the Word of the Living God,
His armor a faith that was strong and bright.

Allie was something-I do not know what-
A fairy-baby-woman-queen—

A pleading child that crept into your heart--
A haughty tyrant as ever was seen;

And we all three loved her, and loved her well,
But John loved her best of us all, I ween.

I told you we loved her, and Harold sued first,
Kneeling to offer his knightly name,

His grand old castle beside the Rhine,

His unsullied honor, his hard-earned fame,