A LIFE SPENT IN PURSUIT OF GLORY.

Man’s new-born life is like the crystal rill, Nameless and lowly issuing from the rock; While in the clear deep bed by nature scooped As in a cradle noiseless, calm, it sleeps, Flowers crown its bank with perfume, and serene The blue of heaven descends upon its breast:— But from the hill’s close arms escaped, when spread Its waves o’er neighbouring plains—with river slime How swell its billows, and with bloated bulk Grow pale and putrid! From its shores recede The wonted shade, and but the naked rock Receives its fugitive waves. Cleaving new paths, The graceful windings of its parent vale It scorns to follow—but ’neath arches deep, Rolling with haughty port, there gains a name As sounding as its surge. Still onward rushing With bounds impetuous; bearing in its path The ships, the tumult, and the mire of cities! Each stream that swells its course another change— Till swoln with waters various and corrupt, Troubled though great, its being vain resigning, In the sea’s breast it pours its pride and slime!