The Massachusetts Spy

[From a London paper.]

SISTE VIATOR!

The following beautiful Stanzas, by Mr. Bowring, are taken from a little volume just published by that gentleman, entitled "Matins and Vespers," &c.

LOOK around thee—see Decay,
On her wings of darkness, sweeping
Earth's proud monuments away—
See the Muse of history weeping
O'er the ruins Time hath made—
Strength in dust and ashes laid,
Virtue in oblivion sleeping.

Look around thee—Wisdom there
Careless Death confounds with Folly
In a common sepulchre!
See the unrighteous and the holy
Blended in the general wreck.
Well those tears may wet thy cheek—
Tears of doubt and melancholy.

Look around thee—Beauty's light
Is extinguish'd—Death assembles
Youth's gay morn and age's night;
And the stedfast mountain trembles
At his glance, like autumn's leaf—
All, he cries, is vain, is brief;
And the tyrant ne'er dissembles.

Look behind thee—cities bid
In the night of treacherous story;
Many a crumbling pyramid,
Many a pile of senseless glory,
Temples into ruin hurl'd,
(Fragments of an earlier world,)
Broken fanes, and altars hoary.

Look behind thee—men whose frown
Made whole nations quake before them—
What is left of their renown?
Wrecks around, oblivion o'er them—
Kings and conquerors, where are they?
Ask yon worthless heaps of clay—
Oh despise not, but deplore them!

Look behind thee—bards sublime,
Smiling nymphs, and solemn sages—
Go! inquire their names of time;
Bid it read its earliest pages.
Foolish questioner; if fame
Guard through years a cherish'd name—
Fame itself decays in ages.

Look before thee—all the glare,
All the pomp around thee glowing;
All that charms the eye or ear,
Strains of softest musick flowing,
Grace and beauty—all are sped
Towards the ruins of the dead:
Thither thou and thine are going.

Look before thee—at yon vault,
Where Time's ravage is recorded,
Thou wilt be compell'd to halt;
Thou wilt be no more regarded
Than the meekest, meanest slave,
Sleeping in a common grave,
Unrespected, unrewarded.

Look before thee—at thy feet
Monarchs sleep like meaner creatures;
Where the voices now, so sweet?
Where the fair one's smiling features?—
Hopest thou t' escape the tomb?
That which was thy father's doom
Will be thine, thy son's, and nature's.

Look above thee—there indeed
May thy thoughts repose delighted.
If thy wounded bosom bleed,
If thy fondest hopes are blighted,
There a stream of comfort flows,
There a sun of splendour glows:
Wander, then, no more benighted.

Look above thee—ages roll,
Present, past, and future blending—
Earth hath nought to soothe a soul
Neath affliction's burden bending,
Nothing 'gainst the tempest's shock;
Heaven must be the pilgrim's rock,
And to heaven his steps are tending.

Look above thee—never eye
Saw such pleasures as await thee;
Thought ne'er reach'd such scenes of joy
As are there prepar'd to meet thee:
Light undying—seraphs' lyres—
Angel-welcomes—cherub-choirs
Smiling through heaven's doors to greet thee.