mouth, and I soon lost my way in the sandy
waste, and was compelled most unwillingly to
pass the night there. It was with no very
pleasing reflection that I tied my horse's
bridle round my arm, and tried to fall asleep.
The awful stillness was very depressing; my
very breath seemed to echo innumerable
sounds, and the sense of loneliness affected
me very much in the same way as I was once
before overpowered, when spending some
eight-and-forty hours alone in the solitudes
of the Arctic regions; the night, however,
passed slowly and gloomily on, and at length
a dim glimmering streak of light appeared
on the eastern sky. The light increased, and
then I heard a faint plaintive note—a lark
was soaring from the sand up into the blue
of heaven. Who can describe the joy of
that first sound? It came like delightful
music to my ears, and my unstrung nerves
were braced again. A heavy dew had
completely wetted me through, and made my
limbs stiff and aching; but, mustering
resolution, I consulted my compass, which
showed me my error, and soon finding the
beaten tracks and riding briskly on, I reached
Chorillos by half-past seven in the morning
—both, man and horse, dead tired, and ravenously
hungry and thirsty. I drank four cups
of chocolate, and devoured, I believe, as many
loaves of bread; while my horse, following
my lead, slacked his thirst with two buckets
of water, and managed to eat a bushel of
alfalfa.

THE TEST OF TIME.

I.

ONCE, in the twilight realm of thought
Wandering and musing, I was brought
Before an ancient portal, wrought

Of heavy stone, but now decay'd;
And, under a thick ivy shade,
I entered straightway, undismay'd.

It was an old, half-ruined place,
Bearing in every part some trace
Of war, as did that Fane at Thrace

Built, on a perilous descent
Under a forest rude and rent,
To Mars, the God Armipotent.

A steely light was in, the hall.
The portraits hanging by the wall
Were arm'd, and mail'd, and vizor'd—all.

And round about stood empty cases
Of armour, with those grinning spaces
Which are as ghosts of living faces.

Each held a lance with nerveless grip,
And leaning sideways tow'rds the hip;
A rust of blood was at the tip.

And many clarions lay around,
Which, o'er the reeling battle-ground
Speaking in sudden starts of sound,

Once lit the blood of men like flame,
Or like the audible tongues of Fame:
But now the pale dust hid their shame.

And battered swords and falchions hung
Down from the walls where, lightly slung,
The indolent spiders slept and swung.

And, fixed amid the pendant woof
And giant net-work of the roof,
The rotting banners drooped aloof.

Dankness, and ashiness, and decay,
Were on that house. The hall was grey
With ghost-light of an elder day,

And touched us with a sense of Death,
Or with the vapour of a breath
That in the wide air vanisheth.

Oh, house that thought thyself so strong,
Forgetful that the years are long,
And many notes make up Heaven's song!

Oh, house whose tenants all are gone,
Whose iron strength has been withdrawn,
As clouds are burnt up in the dawn!

Oh, house whose living soul has past!
I saw thy idol, War, down cast
By Time, the grand Iconoclast!

II.

Much moved by those sad pageants there,
I wandered forth into the air,
And reached a garden bright and fair—

Bright and fair, though overlaid
With languid weeds, which crept and stray'd
Across the pathways like a shade.

It was an evening at the close
Of maiden April, when she grows
Flush'd with the breath of May, and goes

Like an enchantress through the night,
Preparing for men's waking sight
New splendour, mystery, and delight:

That magic season which calls forth
From the brown boughs and from the earth,
Hourly, some glad and sudden birth—

Glorious and swift vitalities!
I look'd across the garden trees,
And felt the deep heart-mysteries

Of the place and of the hour—
Emanations from that Power
Which is the life of star and flower.

Like emerald clouds, with light between
Their vapoury folds, appeared the sheen
Of spring's intense and balmy green.

And many flowers were blooming yet
In that old garden, quaintly set
In strange devices; but now, wet

With dews of night, they closed their eyes,
And gave up as a sacrifice
Their odorous souls into the skies.

In far-off fields reposed the herds:
Through the nigh stream's syllabic words
Came the quick talking of the birds.