The proudest city of the earth, Where all was grand and fair, Where is its joyousness and mirth ?— Its might and splendour, where ?

Its noble palaces, and halls,
Have fallen to decay;

Where stood the city's giant walls,
The moss is growing grey;
Where Babel's mighty column rose,

Stands not a single stone!

But there the rank grass wildly grows, And all is drear and lone.

That stream still rolls in gladness on,
But o'er the silent scene
Remains no trace of Babylon,

To tell that it hath been.

Where is the proud Chaldean's might,
His majesty and power?
Gone-like the darkness of the night,
Pass'd-like an April shower!

Whence came this desolation, why
Hath ruin strew'd the land?
Came there no vengeance from on high,
No sternly dread command?

The magic writing on the wall,
Appalling eye and heart,

Foretold that temple, palace, hall,

And power, should depart!

FROM

THE HOMEWARD BOUND.

IVY LEAVES, BY ISABELLA VARLEY, 1844.

"On Christinas Day I shall dine with you in England." Last Letter home of a Ship Surgeon.

MOTHER, our vessel is homeward bound;-
Leaps not thy heart at the welcome sound?-
Flashes not gladly thy thankful eye?
Hath not hope chidden the starting sigh?
Throbs not thy pulse with an eager joy,—
Impatient yearnings to clasp thy boy?

"We come, we come; through the beaded foam Our vessel cutteth her pathway home:

Proudly she parteth the swelling tide,

And dasheth the froth from her painted side;
Where farewell tears of the weeping wave
Glisten like gems from a mermaid's cave,

"Ere Christmas cometh, I trust to stand, With unchanged heart, on my native strand,

E

Though somewhat altered in form and mien,
From the pale and fragile youth, I ween:
I almost question thy power to trace
Thine only one in my sunburnt face.

"Oh! light of heart I had need to be,
Each moment bringing me nearer thee;
Yet slowly, slowly, Time's pinions move,
Parted from home and the friends we love :
But the time of meeting draweth near,
And I shall partake your Christmas cheer.

"Never hath home been so dear as now;
And I lean at eve o'er the vessel's prow,
Picturing forms I was wont to meet
Round our cheery fire, and long to greet,
Kindly and warmly, the friendly band
Fancy hath call'd from the shadow-land.

"Mother, thy truant may love the sea,
Its dashing billows and breezes free;
Yet wearied turns from its wild unrest
To the holy calm his home possess'd,
And yearns for the gentle smile and tone
That none save a mother's lip hath known.

"As flew the dove to the ark again,

Return I to thee o'er the trackless main ; More welcome thy wandering son will be, Preserved from the perils that walk the sea: I've learn'd the value of childhood's home, And nought shall tempt me again to roam.

"Rememberest thou the boding fears

That drench'd thy cheek with a flood of tears,
When I left my home to tread the deck?
Yet I'm safe and well, and fear no wreck ;--
The fever hath pass'd and left me free,

It hath thinned our crew but scathed not me.

"Health hath breathed on our ship again,
Gaily we scud o'er the watery plain ;—
Gaily, for now we are homeward bound,
Soon we shall leap upon English ground:
Joy, joy, my dear Mother, for me and you;
Till Christmas merry,-adieu! adieu !"

Christmas approacheth- is here--is gone,
But where is the long-expected one?

Round the hearth his childhood's playmates meet,-
Where is the friend they had hoped to greet?

Mother, his wanderings aye are o'er;

Friends, he will meet ye on earth no more.

Buoyant and fearless of future ill,
Dreaming happiness waited his will;
With step elastic and hope-lit eye

He paced the deck,-his pulse beat high;
But the scorching breath of fever pass'd,
And life-blood shrank from the burning blast.

Homeward he fled to the better shore,-

The toilsome voyage of life is o'er :

He sleeps the sleep of the dreamless dead,
A sea-weed pillow beneath his head;
The rest he sought his spirit found, -
Mother, thy wept one was Homeward Bound!

THE CONTENTED SPOUSE.

DAVID WILLIAM PAYNTER; DIED NEAR MANCHESTER, MARCH 15, 1823.

WHILE striplings sigh in sugar'd verse,

Invoking sylph and fairy,

A husband, surely, may rehearse

The love he bears to MARY.

No puling vows he'll e'er employ,
To prove his passion chary;
Nor e'er with fiction's dross alloy
The praise he gives to MARY.

At home, abroad, in joy, or grief,
Her heart is ever wary;

Who yields not to this truth belief,

Does wrong to him and MARY.