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The double night of ages, and of her,
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap
All round us; we but feel our way to err.
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map,
And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap;
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer
Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap
Our hands and cry, “ Eureka!” it is clear-
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.

Alas! the lofty city! and alas !
The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!
Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,
And Livy's pictured page !—but these shall be
Her resurrection ; ali beside-decay.
Alas for earth, for never shall we see
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!

BYRON.

THE JEWS AND THE SCRIPTURES. The Jews were instrumentally the means of conveying to us our pure religion, as we owe to them the Bible, which is the repository of its historical facts and teachings. This wonderful book is the great auto-biography of human nature, from its infancy to its perfection. Whatever man has seen, and felt, and done in the great theatre of the world, is therein expressed with the simplicity and vividness of personal consciousness, in the happiest moments of inspiration which have fallen upon our race during the lapse of sixteen centuries. This volume stations us on a spot well selected as a watch-tower, from which we may overlook the history of the world,-an angle of coast between the ancient continents of Asia and Africa, subtended by the newer line of European civilization. There we have a neighbouring view of every form of human life, and every variety of human character. The solitary shepherd on the plains of Assyria, watching the changing heavens until he worships them ;-the patriarch pitching his tent on the nearer plain of Mamre ;—the Arab or Ishmaelite, half-merchant and halfrobber, hurrying his fleet dromedaries across the sunny desert; the Phænician commerce, gladdening the Mediterranean with its sails, or, on its way from India, spreading its wares on the streets of Jerusalem ;--the sacerdotal grandeur of Egypt, and the vast magnificence of Nineveh the Great, and Babylon the Great-are all spread beneath our eye in vivid colours and quick transition ;all agents on this stage of providence, and all partaking in the trials and triumphs of humanity. If we inquire who were the men that have recorded its truths, vindicated its rights, and illustrated the excellence of its scheme-from the depth of ages comes forth the answer—the Patriarch, the Prophet, the Apostle, and Martyr. If we regard the literature of the Bible, we find

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words of Fenelon—that it surpasses the Greek classics in native simplicity, loveliness and grandeur. Homer himself never reached the sublimity of the Song of Moses, or of the book of Job and the prophecies of Isaiah. The passages describing the majesty and government of God, are unequalled in any language or in any age. No ode, either Greek or Latin, ever came up to the loftiness of some of the Psalms. What can be compared to the Lamentations of Jeremiah in pathos, or to the sweetness of those passages of Isaiah, in which he draws such a smiling image of Peace? Did space permit, we might also enumerate the peculiar excellencies of the other writers of Scripture, and especially those of the New Testament. The deep interest_attaching to the wide and various scenes described, and to the momentous truths inculcated,-gradually gathers itself to a single point-towards which all the conveying lines meet, and that is the Saviour. He indeed is the great central object, around which all the ages and events of the Bible are but an outlying circumference.-J. MARTINEAU, adap.

JERUSALEM.

Fallen is thy throne, O Israel !

Silence is o'er thy plains !
Thy dwellings all lie desolate,

Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee

On Etham's barren shore?
That fire from heaven that led thee

Now lights that path no more!
Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem;

Once she was all thine own;
Her love thy fairest heritage,

Her power thy glory's throne;
Till evil came and blighted

Thy long-loved olive-tree,
And Salem's shrines were lighted

For other gods than thee.
Then sank the star of Solyma;

Then passed her glory's day,
Like heath that in the wilderness

The light wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers,

Where once the mighty trode;
And sunk those guilty towers,

Where Baal reigned as God.
“Go,” said the Lord, “ye conquerors,

Steep in her blood your swords,
And raze to earth her battlements,

For they are not the Lord's.

Tell Zion's mournful daughter

O'er kindred bones she'll tread,
And Himmon's vale of slaughter

Shall hide but half her dead.”
But soon shall other pictured scenes

In brighter vision rise,
When Zion's sun shall sevenfold shine

On all her mourner's eyes;
And on her mountains beauteous stand

The messengers of peace;
“ Salvation by the Lord's right hand !”

They shout and never cease.-MOORE.

MODERN CIVILIZATION FOUNDED ON THE ANCIENT.

Our present mental light, like that of nature, is composed of distinct rays of various colours; and for each we are indebted to some one of past civilizations. Three of these stand out prominently from the rest, with regard to the mighty influence they have exercised over modern society; and each had a distinct mission assigned it by Providence. To the Greeks it has been given to develope the beautiful in art and literature, and the true in science and philosophy; to the Romans, jurisprudence and the municipal rule; but to the Jews it was assigned to teach the holiness of God and the salvation of man; or in the sublime words of one of their great poet-prophets, -announcing the mission of Sion to a world enslaved by sense, self and passion :

“Behold darkness covereth the earth,
And thick mist the peoples,
But Jehovah riseth upon thee;
And His glory shall be seen on thee;
Then the Gentiles shall come to thy light,
And kings to the brightness of thy rising."

Prospective Review, adap.

KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN.
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,

Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland

His drinking-horn bequeathed, -
That, whenever they sat at their revels,

And drank from the golden bowl,
They might remember the donor,

And breathe a prayer for his soul.
So sat they once at Christmas,

And bade the goblet pass ;
In their beards the red wine glistened

Like dew-drops on the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,

They drank to Christ the Lord, And to each of the Twelve Apostles,

Who had preached his holy word. They drank to the Saints and Martyrs

of the dismal days of yore, And as soon as the horn was empty

They remembered one Saint more. And the reader droned from the pulpit,

Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,

And Saint Basil's homilies;
Till the great bells of the convent,

From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholoinæus,

Proclaimed the midnight hour.
And the yule-log crackled in the chimney,

And the Abbot bowed his head,
And the flamlets flapped and flickered,

But the Abbot was stark and dead.
Yet still in his pallid fingers

He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving,

Had sunk and dissolved his soul. But not for this their revels

The jovial Monks forbore. For they cried, " Fill high the goblet ! We must drink to one Saint more!"-LONGFELLOW.

THE CURFEW BELL.
Hark! from the dim church tower,
The deep slow curfew's chime !
A heavy sound unto hall and bower
In England's olden time!
Sadly 'twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth-flame
In his children's eyes make light.
And woe for him whose wakeful soul,-
With lone aspirings fill'd,-
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were still'd!

And yet a deeper woe
For the watcher by the bed,
Where the fondly loved in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!
Darkness in chieftain's hall !
Darkness in peasant's cot!
While freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.
Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize !
For blood hath flowed like rain,
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again.
Gather ye round the holy hearth,
And by its gladdening blaze,
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days !-Hemans.

THE NORMAN BARON.

In his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman Baron lying;
Loud, without, the tempest thundered,

And the castle-turret shook.
In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,

Written in the Doomsday Book.
By his bed a monk was seated,
Who in humble voice repeated
Many a prayer and pater-noster,

From the missal on his knee;
And, amid the tempest pealing,
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing,
Bells, that from the neighbouring kloster,

Rang for the Nativity.
In the hall, the serf and vassal
Held, that night, their Christmas wassail ;
Many a carol, old and saintly,

Sang the minstrels and the waits.
And so loud these Saxon gleemen
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen,
That the storm was heard but faintly,

Knocking at the castle gates.

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