Where busy thousands oft have trod Beneath thy mouldering marble brow, Wild moss-grown fragments press the sod, Around thee all is silence now. And thus the breath of foul decay Shall melt at last thy form away.
Thou desolate, deserted pile, Lone vestage of departed glory, Sadly in ruin thou seem'st to smile, While baffled time flies frowning o'er thee, As if resolved the tale to tell Where Carthage stood, and how it fell.
Midst ruined walls thou stand'st alone, Around thee strewn may yet be seen The broken column, sculptured stone, And relics sad of what hath been. But thou alone survivest the fall, Defying Time, dread leveller of all.
FADED HOURS.
BY J. R. SUTERMINSTER.
Ob. 1836: æt. 23.
Oh! for my bright and faded hours When life was like a summer stream, On whose gay banks the virgin flowers Blush'd in the morning's rosy beam; Or danced upon the breeze that bare Its store of rich perfume along, While the wood-robin pour'd on air The ravishing delights of song.
The sun look'd from his lofty cloud, While flow'd its sparkling waters fair— And went upon his pathway proud, And threw a brighter lustre there; And smiled upon the golden heaven, And on the earth's sweet loveliness, Where light, and joy, and song were given, The glad and fairy scene to bless!
Ah! these were bright and joyous hours, When youth awoke from boyhood's dream, To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers, While young hope bask'd in morning's beam! And proffer'd thanks to heaven above, While glow'd his fond and grateful breast, Who spread for him that scene of love And made him, so supremely blest!