The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1848-03-25
Tor he JetW VWT.
A Leaf from The Olden Time.


Mournrul is the reflection that this
world with its glorics, its honors and its
magnifcence is continually passing away
Tn turning ores thoughts to the ages and
the scenes gone by, and dwelling upon
the changes that have swept over the
globe since the creation OF man and the
commencement OF authentic records, the
contempIativc mind is startled and al
most overwhelmed at the complete tri-
umphs of Time, over the greatest and
most stable OF the works Ct man. Our
lives being but moment in comparison
with the ages during with which Time
has been busy upon the earth, we have
very little opportunity Of seeing the ex-
tent and rapinity Of his conquests. Our
thoughts are taken up with what we
shall eat ana drink and WherrWithal we
shall be clothed; the thousand necessities
of life distract our minds from any long
and connected train of contemplation,
and his rayagcs lie spread before our eyes
without exciting a serious thought. We
pass from youth to manhood, from man
hood to the years of the iaItcring step
and the si!vrrv head--We look back and
exclaim with a sigh that it seems but
Yesterday that we were children; but
Oh, where is cur youth, our vigor, our
courage. orr fiery thoughts, our bound
ing hearts and those whom we 50 TENDER
" lov"d! They are gone, but we know
not whittier We have dim rpcollec-
ton OF 3 strange and fearful pallor set
Ting upon the broWs of some Of our
friends that they smiled and Spakc to us
10 more. We entertain ha!l-certan,
dreamy remembrance that they were
borne from their couch by solemn men,
to some green spot, where the grass
grows rank and tall: and whistles and
whispers to our hearts as the wind runs
over it, an indefnable and melancholy
story.
Time has overthrow and leveled with
The dust the most splendid monuments
of human grandeur. Whether his con-
quests have been achieved by the torch,
the sword, famine, plague, locustS, or by
long, silent processes OF slow but sure
decay, he has done his work well. He
has planted the Ky and the waIItlower
where the shout Of the multitude went
up, and the high hall resounded with
the song ofjoy, the eXultation Of victory
and the ring OF the tourney He has
sent the fiery sand and spread out the
glowing desert over the gardens of kings
and over the courts OF the mighty He
has buried monument, tower, column
and arch, palace, trmple, mausoeum
and cottage. All in which the genius
of man could glory, or of which philos-
ophy, painting, scnl ptura or poesy could
boast, whatever was lovely, magnificent
or beautiful, has fallen down before him
in his grant march-his wheels have
rolled on, his victims are forgotten,
while other spoils are constantly spring.
ing up TO be tumbled into ruin in turn
when the measure Of DAYS shall have
been filled There is something connect
ed with the destinies of the cities of an
tiquity to our mind inexpressbly mystic
rious and mournul.
We have often read and reflected lit
tie upon their fate; we have porpd over
the dusty page of the historian until we
could hear in fancy the crash Of the fall
ing column, the clang Of the battering-
ram, and the shrieks of despairing women
and children; until we have felt the
ground quaking beneath the stroke Of
tumbling walls and towers, until we have
seen the Kissing flames burst from the
doors and windows Of palaces and wind
their lurid wreaths around the trembling
spires OF many lordly temple We
have read that war, famine, and disease
have literally driven the ploughshare
through their foundations, and we know
that they are left desolate,-that they,
have no moro a place in the catalogue
of existent things, and that their memory
is becoming stranger to the thoughts
of men But the mystery and the gloom
still remain. We can bear to think of
the dreadful siege, the incessant watch
ing, the hopeless looks, the dash of squad
rons, the fierce assault and the stern re-
pulse; we can think of the widened
breach, and the rushing in of the be-