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Page 2
J.E.S.
[2] See "Select Biography," page 199, present Volume of the MIRROR.
* * * * *
ENGLAND IN 827, 1827, 2827.
(_For the Mirror_.)
One thousand years have now elapsed since Egbert laid the foundation of
England's glory, by uniting the kingdoms of the heptarchy. What was
England then? what is it now? what will it be in 2827?
In 827, how confined her empire, how narrow her limits, how few her
resources; the lord and his vassals the only classes of society. In
1827, she may exclaim with the Spanish Philip, "The sun never sets upon
my dominions." How difficult to mention the bounds of her empire, or to
calculate the vastness of her resources! and still more difficult task
to enumerate the gradations of society which modern refinement has
produced. Where will this extended sway, this power, these resources,
and these refinements be in 2827?
"Oh! for the glance of prophet's eye,
To scan thy depths, futurity."
Judging by the fate of nations, they will have passed away like a
morning cloud. Look at the fame of Nineveh levelled in the dust. Search
for the site of Babylon, with its walls and gates, its hanging gardens
and terraces! Contemplate the ghost of the enlightened Athens, stalking
through the ruins of her Parthenon, her Athenaeum, or Acropolis. Examine
the shadow of power which now remains to the mighty Rome, the empress of
the world. Even so will it be with England; ere ten centuries have
rolled away, her sun-like splendour will illume a western world. Our
stately palaces and venerable cathedrals, our public edifices and
manufactories, our paintings and sculpture, will be fruitful subjects of
conjecture and controversy to the then learned. And a fragment of a
pillar from St. Paul's, or a mutilated statue from Westminster, will be
as valuable to them as a column from the Temple of Belus, or a broken
cornice from the Temple of Theseus, is now to us!
D.A.H.
* * * * *
THE ROBIN.
(_For the Mirror_.)
Hark to the robin--whistling clear--
The requiem of the dying year--
Amidst the garden bower.
He quits his native forest shade,
Ere ruin stern hath there display'd
Its desolating power.
He sings--but not the song of love--
No,--that is for the quick'ning grove--
The brightly budding tree.
And tho' we listen and rejoice;
In melody that sweet-ton'd voice
Implores our charity.
The birds of passage take their flight
To other lands--of warmth and light--
Where orient breezes blow.
While here the little red-breast stays,
And sweetly warbles out his lays,
Amidst the chilling snow.
When the keen North congeals the stream
That sparkled in the summer-beam--
Chink--chink--the Robin comes.
His near approach proclaims a dearth
Of food upon the ice-bound earth;--
He whistles for our crumbs.
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