Thrice blest the man who with himself can hold
Communion deep; and, in his spirit, range
To lands far distant, into times of old,

And view successive ages as they change:
Strange countries, and inhabitants as strange-
By Tiber, where the Kesars held their sway,
Attic Ilissus, Nile, and sacred Gange;

Kingdoms and empires long since passed away, And kings and conquerors, the mighty of their day.

Thus, Fancy-led, the aspiring Soul can spring
Her daring flight beyond the bounds of space,
And soar through heaven on unwearied wing,
Leaving slow Time behind her in the race
To crawl this world's monotonous foot-pace;
Call up the mighty of another age,

The men most celebrated in their day,

The

young and beautiful, the old and sage, And all who've famous been in this life's pilgrimage.

Or, with prophetic eye and buoyant hope,
See into dim futurity; and pierce,

With quick-ey'd Fancy, the mind's telescope,
The lengthening vista of succeeding years,
Before which all Time-past as nought appears,
And Time-to-come, in beautiful array,

Smiling with hope amid her rainbow tears,
Trips gaily on, and points the unknown way,
Bright as the evening sky, and clear as the noonday.

And blest that spiritual happiness which sees
Perfect design in Nature's wanderings-

A beauty in her strangest images,

And in her quaintest forms; that power which flings
Its own bright joyance round the meanest things,

And, like the sun, makes gladness general;

That elasticity of thought which springs Highest and quickest from the greatest fall; That buoyancy of mind which rises above all.

And blest, oh! more than blest, those thoughts which spring From the rich memory of historic lore,

The lonely heart with gladness deluging,

As moonlight floods the heavens; those thoughts of yore, Which haply thousands may have dreamed before, Yet we no poorer are; our fancies rove

Through distant times, and kingdoms now no more; And the bold spirit broods on things above,

And human hopes and fears of ancient hate and love.

Like as an eagle on the wild winds playeth,

Or as a nightingale dwells on her song;

Like as a river in a vale delayeth,

Or as a breeze near rose-fields tarrieth long;
As young steeds loiter the green meads among;
As bees and butterflies, from morn till even,

Amongst the sweetest flowers their sports prolong;
The aspiring soul, in thoughts celestial weaven,
Dallies in bygone dreams, the dim foretaste of heaven.

How changed the busy scene of former days,
When twice five thousand monks obey'd the call
To general thanksgiving and to praise;

When the stone cloisters echoed, and the hall
Resounded with the solemn festival;

And gay processions filled each gorgeous gate.
No more do pilgrims round the solid wall
Of yon mysterious pile perambulate :

No more to Budh do kings their kingdoms dedicate.

Nought but the Topes themselves remain to mock
Time's ceaseless efforts; yet they proudly stand
Silent and lasting up their parent rock,

And still as cities under magic's wand;
Till curious Saxons, from a distant land,
Unlock'd the treasures of two thousand years;

And the lone scene is peopled ;-here a band
Of music wakes the echoes; there the cheers
Of multitudes, alive with human hopes and fears.

THE END.