And pass the prairie hawk that', poised on high',
Flaps his broad wings', yet moves not'-that have played
Among the palms of Mexico', and the vines

Of Texas', and have crisped the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide
Into the calm Pacific'-have ye fanned
A nobler, or a lovelier, scene than this'?
Man hath no part in all this glorious work':

The HAND that built the firmament hath heaved,

And smoothed, these verdant swells', and sown their slopes
With herbage'; planted them with island groves',
And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor
For this magnificent temple of the sky"!-
With flowers whose glory, and whose multitude,
Rival the constellations'! The great heavens
Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love-
A nearer vault', and of a tenderer blue',
Than that which bends above the eastern hills.

As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed
Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides',
The hollow beating of his footstep seems'
A sacrilegious sound. I think of those
Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here'-
The dead of other days'? And did the dust
Of these fair solitudes once stir with life',
And burn with passion'? Let the mighty mounds
That overlook the rivers', or that rise

In the dim forest', crowded with old oaks',

Answer'. A race that long has passed away
Built them'; a disciplined, and populous race

Heaped', with long toil, the earth', while yet the Greek
Was hewing the Pentelicus* to forms

Of symmetry', and rearing on its rock

The glittering Parthenon'. These ample fields
Nourished their harvest`; here their herds were fed',
When, haply', by their stalls the bison lowed',
And bowed his maned‡ shoulder to the yoke.
All day this desert murmured with their toils',
Till twilight blushed'; and lovers walked, and wooed',
In a forgotten language'; and old tunes',

*A mountain in Attica, famous for its marble quarries.

† A temple of Minerva at Athens.

Two syllables, with the first long.

From instruments of unremembered form',
Gave the soft winds a voice'.

The red man came'

The roaming hunter tribes', warlike and wild'-
And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.
The solitude of centuries untold

Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie wolf
Hunts in their meadows', and his fresh dug den
Yawns by my path. The gophar mines the ground
Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone-
All', save the piles of earth that hold their bones-
The platforms', reared to worship unknown gods-
The barriers', which they builded from the soil,
To keep the foe at bay', till o'er the walls

The wild beleaguers brokè,-and', one by one',

The strong holds of the plain were forced', and heaped
With corpses.
The brown vultures of the wood

Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchers',
And sat unscared', and silent', at their feast.
Haply, some solitary fugitive',

Lurking in marsh and forest, till the scene
Of desolation, and of fear, became

Bitterer than death', yielded himself to die.
Man's better nature triumphed. Kindly looks
Welcomed the captive', and consoling words.
The conquerors placed him with their chiefs'; he chose
A bride among their maidens', and, at length',
Seemed to forget', yet ne'er forgot', the wife
Of his first love', and her sweet little ones
Butchered, and their shrieks', with all his race.

Thus change the forms of being'; thus arise
Races of living things', glorious in strength',
And perish', as the quickening breath of God
Fills them', or is withdrawn. The red man, too,
Has left these beautiful and lonely wilds',
And nearer to the Rocky Mountains sought
A wider hunting ground. The Beaver builds
No longer by these streams'; but far away',
On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back
The white man's face'-among Missouri's springs'
And pools', whose issues swell the Oregon',
He rears his little Venice. In these plains
The bison feeds no more.

Twice twenty leagues

Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp',
Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake'
The earth with thundering steps'; yet here I meet
His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.

Still this great solitude is quick with life.
Myriads of insects', gaudy as the flowers
They flutter over', gentle quadrupeds',

And birds that scarce have learned the fear of man',
Are here'; and sliding reptiles of the ground',
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer
Bounds to the wood at my approach.

The bee'

A more adventurous colonist than man',
With whom he came across the eastern deep'-
Fills the savannas with his murmurings',
And hides his sweets', as in the golden agé,
Within the hollow oak. I listen long
To his domestic hum', and think I hear
The sound of that advancing multitude

Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground
Comes up the laugh of children', the soft voice
Of maidens', and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
Over the dark brown furrows. All at oncé,
A fresher breeze sweeps by', and breaks my
And I am in the wilderness alone.

dream';

LESSON CV.

RUINS OF EPHESUS.

WHO does not remember the tumults and confusion raised by Demetrius the silversmith', "lest the temple of the great goddess Diana should be despised', and her magnificence be destroyed'?" and how the people', having caught "Caius and Aristarchus', Paul's companions in travel'," rushed with one accord into the theater, crying out', "great is Diana of the Ephesians' ?" My dear friend', I sat among the ruins of that theater'; the stillness of death was around mè; far as the eye could reach, not a living soul was to be

seen save my two companions and a group of lazy Turks smoking at the coffee-house in Aysalook.

A man of strong'imagination might almost go wild with the intensity of his own reflections'; and do not let it surprise you, that even one like mé, brought up among the technicalities of declarations and replications', rebutters and surrebutters', and in no wise given to the illusions of the senses, should find himself roused', and irresistibly hurried back to the time when the shapeless and confused mass around him formed one of the most magnificent cities in the world'; when a large and busy population was hurrying through its streets', intent upon the same pleasures and the same business that engage men now`; that he should, in imagination, see before him St. Paul preaching to the Ephesians', shaking their faith in the gods of their fathers', gods made with their own hands', together with the noise and confusion', and the people rushing tumultuously up the very steps where he sat`; that he should almost hear their cry ringing in his ears', “Great is Diana of the Ephesians';" and then that he should turn from this scene of former glory, and eternal ruin', to his own far-distant land'; a land that the wisest of the Ephesians never dreamed of'; where the wild man was striving with the wild beast', when the whole world rang with the greatness of the Ephesian namè; and which bids fair to be growing greater and greater', when the last vestige of Ephesus shall be gone', and its very site unknown.

But where is the temple of the great Dianá, the temple two hundred and twenty years in building'; the temple of one hundred and twenty-seven columns', each column the gift of a king'? Can it be that the temple of the "Great goddess Diana'," that the ornament of Asia', the pride of Ephesus', and one of the seven wonders of the world', has gone, disappeared', and left not a trace behind'? As a traveler, I would fain be able to say that I have seen the ruins of this temple; but, unfortunately', I am obliged to limit myself by facts. Its site has, of course, engaged the attention of antiquaries. I am no skeptic in these matters', and am disposed to believe all that my cicerone* tells me. You remember the countryman who complained to his minister that he never gave him any Latin in his sermons'; and when the minister answered that he would not understand it', the countryman replied that

* Sis-e-ro-ne; Guide.

he paid for the best, and ought to have it. I am like that honest countryman'; but my cicerone understood himself better than the minister'; he knew that I paid him for the best'; he knew what was expected from him', and that his reputation was gone forever if, in such a place as Ephesus', he could not point out the ruins of the great temple of Diana. He accordingly had his' templé, which he stuck to with as much pertinacity as if he had built it himself`; but I am sorry to be obliged to say, in spite of his authority and my own wish to believe him', that the better opinion is, that now not a single stone is to be seen.

plain', near the The sea, which

Topographers have fixed the site on the gate of the city which opened to the sea. once almost washed the walls, has receded, or been driven back, for several miles. For many years a new soil has been accumulating', and all that stood on the plain, including so much of the remains of the temple as had not been plundered and carried away by different conquerors', is probably now buried many feet under its surface.

It was dark when I returned to Aysalook. I had remarked, in passing, that several caravans had encamped there, and on my return found the camel-drivers assembled in the little coffee-house in which I was to pass the night. I soon saw that there were so many of us that we should make a tight fit in the sleeping part of the khan,* and immediately measured off space enough to fit my body', allowing turning and kicking room. I looked with great complacency upon the light slippers of the Turks', which they always throw off when they go to sleep', and made an ostentatious display of a pair of heavy iron-nailed boots'; and, in lying down, gave one or two preliminary thumps' to show them that I was restless in my movements', and that, if they came too near mé, these iron-nailed boots would be uncomfortable neighbors. And here I ought to have spent half the night in musing upon the strange concatenation of circumstances which had broken up a quiet practicing attorney', and sent him a straggler from a busy, money-getting land', to meditate among the ruins of ancient cities', and sleep pellmell with turbaned Turks. But I had no time for musing'; I was amazingly tired'; I looked at the group of Turks in one corner', and regretted that I could not talk with them'; thought of the

• Pronounced kawn; here, a Turkish inn.