aring arches, bright with wasted gold,
That after generations might be told
A thing of dust once reigned.

Tombs, hallowed by long years of toil,
Were built to shrine heroic clay,
Too proud to rest in vulgar soil,
And moulder silently way;
Though treasure lavished on the dead
The wretched might have clothed and fed--
Dragged merit from obscuring shade,
And debts of gratitude have paid;
From want relieved neglected sage,
Or veteran in battle tried;
Smoothed the rough path of weary age,
And the sad tears of orphanage have dried.

Though green the laurel round the brow
Of wasting and triumphant War,
Peace, with her sacred olive bough,
Can boast of conquests nobler far:
Beneath her gentle sway
Earth blossoms like a rose--
The wide old woods recede away,
Through realms, unknown but yesterday,
The tide of Empire flows.
Woke by her voice rise battlement and tower,
Art builds a home, and Learning finds a bower--
Triumphant Labor for the conflict girds,
Speaks in great works instead of empty words;
Bends stubborn matter to his iron will,
Drains the foul marsh, and rends in twain the hill--
A hanging bridge across the torrent flings,
And gives the car of fire resistless wings.
Light kindles up the forest to its heart,
And happy thousands throng the new-born mart;
Fleet ships of steam, deriding tide and blast,
On the blue bounding waters hurry past;
Adventure, eager for the task, explores
Primeval wilds, and lone, sequestered shores--
Braves every peril, and a beacon lights
To guide the nations on untrodden heights.

[Illustration: EXPECTATION J. Addison
Engraved expressly for Graham's Magazine]

EXPECTATION.

BY LOUISA M. GREEN.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Why comes he not? He should have come ere this:
The promised hour is past: he is not here!
I love him--yes, my maiden heart is his;
I sigh--I languish when he is not near.
The truant! Wherefore tarries he? His love,
Were it like mine, would woo him to my side--
Or does he--dares he--merely seek to prove
The doubted passion of his promised bride?
Do I not love him? But does he love me?
He swore so yester-eve, when last we met
Down in the dell by our old trysting-tree:
Can he be false? If so, my sun is set!
No; he will come--I feel--I know he will;
And he shall never dream that once I sighed;
I hear his step--behold his form: be