e and far-spread
dominion of some mighty state, and we feel as if we partook of its
deep-set and triumphant strength. When, therefore, a great and ancient
empire falls into pieces, or when fragments of its power are heard rent
asunder, like column after column disparting from some noble edifice, in
sad conviction, we feel as if all the cities of men were built on
foundations beneath which the earthquake sleeps. The same doom seems to
be imminent over all the other kingdoms that still stand; and in the
midst of such changes, and decays, and overthrows--or as we read of
them of old--we look, under such emotions, on all power as
foundationless, and in our wide imagination embrace empires covered only
with the ruins of their desolation. Yet such is the pride of the human
spirit, that it often unconsciously, under the influence of such
imagination, strives to hide from itself the utter nothingness of its
mightiest works. And when all its glories are visibly crumbling into
dust, it creates some imaginary power to overthrow the fabrics of human
greatness--and thus attempts to derive a kind of mournful triumph even
in its very fall. Thus, when nations have faded away in their sins and
vices, rotten at the heart and palsied in all their limbs, we strive not
to think of that sad internal decay, but imagine some mighty power
smiting empires and cutting short the records of mortal magnificence.
Thus Fate and Destiny are said in our imagination to lay our glories
low. Thus, even, the calm and silent air of Oblivion has been thought of
as an unsparing Power. Time, too, though in moral sadness wisely called
a shadow, has been clothed with terrific attributes, and the sweep of
his scythe has shorn the towery diadem of cities. Thus the mere sigh in
which we expire, has been changed into active power--and all the nations
have with one voice called out "Death!" And while mankind have sunk, and
fallen, and disappeared in the helplessness of their own mortal being,
we have still spoken of powers arrayed against them--powers that are in
good truth only another name for their own weaknesses. Thus imagination
is for ever fighting against truth--and even when humbled, her visions
are sublime--conscious even amongst saddest ruin of her own immortality.

Higher and higher than ever rose the tower of Belus, uplifted by
ecstasy, soars the LARK, the lyrical poet of the sky. Listen, listen!
and the more remote the bird the louder seems his hymn in hea