To a contemplative mind, how many emotions arise upon taking a review of history. We see whole nations swept away from the surface of the globe, and others springing up to form the connecting link in the grand chain of nature. We see the stupendous powers of the Omnipotent, at whose beck myriads start into life—at whose frown they vanish away like chaff before the wind. We are inclined to ask, Where now is mighty Rome, the empress of the world? Lost in the abyss of her own power and greatness. Greece, too, with all her brave sons—her disinterested patriots—her wise and just lawgivers—where are they? All, all are fled, their very existence almost forgotten; and as a favourite traveller remarks, “Greece remembers her sons no more.” He whose reckless ambition sighed for worlds to conquer, is himself conquered by the strong hand of death. The prince and peasant, the rich and poor, the bond and free, alike fall beneath those all-powerful shafts. “The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave. Must wait alike the inevitable hour; The paths of glory lead but to the grave.” While surveying these things, the mind is lost in the boundless depths of imagination. We are led to reflect upon the transitory state of existence we pass in this nether world; and the truth flashes upon us, that however great we may be in our own estimation—however great in our own conceit, we are but in reality as the bubble on the water, the ephemera of a summer’s day. Reader! didst thou ever examine the interior of an ant-hill? didst thou ever notice how its busy little inmates are hurrying to and fro, intent upon their different occupations? Some are occupied in excavating the ground to prepare store-houses for the preservation of their grain in the winter—some in removing the dirt from the streets that nothing may obstruct the progress of their various business—some in plastering the earth with a kind of clay, which they carefully prepare, that it may not fall in and destroy their populous city, while others again are preparing cells for the reception of their eggs. Thus we see all is bustle, all is activity; like mortals, some are laying up wealth they are fated never to enjoy, or planning schemes of grandeur which will never come to pass. The ploughshare passes over, and where are those busy troops? Eurus blows his blast in the fierceness of his anger, and the whole colony is scattered, the swarming multitude is no more. Thus it is with man: placed by his Creator in so beautiful a world, endowed, perhaps, with health, and riches, and honours, surrounded by a circle of friends and flatterers, enjoying all the pomps and luxuries of this life, he drinks deeply of the intoxicating cup of Circe, and forgets that he is but a child of clay, “a stranger and a sojourner as all his fathers were.”