All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.

The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.

The victory of endurance born.

Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.

The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.