9

Fired with ambition's torch, his daring scheme
Reigns not alone, in his wild fickle brain,
The dawn of Sovereignty begins to gleam
Aided by dark imposture's wily stain.

10

In his dark cave he sits, and all alone,
In studious solitude, he racks his brain;
Devises schemes, and by the Pagan groan,
Cause Araby the blest reign o'er again.

11

Thus mused the prophet, in his lonely hour
The mistress of the world in arts and war,
And mighty nations weep, a fallen power;
The Grand destroyer, thunders from afar.

12

The scene is changed, the warrior's fiery eye,
Laughs at the shout, which through the desert rings
Fore him, the thunder stricken Magian's fly,

He founds an empire to a line of kings.

13

Who dares in Mecca, in the temple stand
Devoid of fear, and preaching powerfully,
Assuming over all supreme command,
Determined for the unity to die.

14

"Tis Mahomet of Hira's solitude

Whose mighty cause smoothes down the thorny way, Whose sword is reeking with the Pagan blood, Before whom, all fall prostrate, and obey.

15

But years have fled; the prophet now reclined
Where first, the nymph held forth his power supreme,
He sleeps, but no strange voice, with accents kind,
Delights his soul, tis now a stranger dream.

16

Forth from a grotto, hung with evergreen
Proceed the Virtues, wending gracefully,
One foremost came, a beauteous, stately Queen,
At sight of whom all unbelievers fly.

17

Behind her Prudence came with simple rule,

And pointing to a globe, all boldly came

Next cheerful Temperance, fresh from wisdom's

School

With hand on bridle to check riot's flame.

18

Then Justice came, with scales of beaming gold
And Fortitude who leant upon his glaive,
Then Honesty, in glassy vest enrolled,
And Modesty all veiled in sweetness grave.

19

All these encircle their fair lovely Queen,
Religion views them, hails them as her own,
Proclaims a few short ages 'twill be seen
The bard shall sing great Mosle m's Empire gone.

20

Now he awakes; but conscience stern rebels
Against the impostor on the bed of death,
Not all his angels, not his magic spells
Can give his body one more hour of breath.

21

He's gone! life's taper now is out; The man
Who founded Empires, kept the world in fear
Is dead, for all must die, great nature's plan
Will never change, thus, reader ends the seer.

POLYPHILUS.

Saturday, February 24, 1844,

No. 25.

A Journey through the Temple of Science.

(A Vision.)

"I give and I devise (old Euclid said,

And sighed) my lands and tenements to Ned.
Your money sir ?-My money, sir what, all?
Why-if I must-(then wept) I give it Paul,
The manor, sir!-The manor! hold (he cried)
Not that I cannot part with that-and died.

Pope's Characters of Men.

One evening as I slept, methought I beheld a beautiful temple in a beautiful place; I stood and gazed on this wonderful work with admiration and astonishment, many of its high towers appeared to touch the sky, but one in particular met my observation; it seemed to rise above all the others and lose its summit in the deep blue sky, which it would have done but for a stream of vivid gold which displayed its wondrous termination. What does this mean? I enquired of an old man at the gate of the temple. He answered, son! this is the temple of science! Yon high tower, which you see projecting to the skies is the road to the golden country, which from its narrow stair-case is very difficult to ascend, come

in my son, and I will shew you all those who are aiming at an habitation in the Golden Country. He led the way inside the temple and I followed him trembling. What a sight instantly caught mine eyes! There sat the poet, with a pale haggard countenance, his head leaning on his arm, and gazing upwards as if looking to heaven for an idea, to adorn his work and place him comfortably in the Golden Country; occasionally a smile would break over his sad countenance and his eyes would beam with the light of gladness, when a new idea had arisen in his already fertile mind. On the table he was writing lay the great works of the Great Poets, that had gone before and delighted the world with their brilliant imaginations, Shakspeare, Milton, Pope, Dryden, &c. who are now exercising authority in the temple of the Muses, and many others of modern times; I saw him glance frequently at those great authors, but I also noticed that each glance was accompanied with a heavy dismal sigh, as if he said within himself; "when shall I "when shall I appear like these, when shall I be caressed and revered by the world like these, I am afraid I never shall, I lack a poetic soul like theirs." After that I observed another smile gladden his visage, I turned my head from him for an instant to gaze