The headless trunk of the great Pompey was not left to decay upon the sea-shore. How it rejoices us to learn, after following his fortunes to his unhappy death, when he is cast upon the sand, neglected and uncoffined, that his faithful slave gathered a small pile of wood, and burned his body, carefully collecting the ashes. As soon as the task is done, Pompey is great again; and we close his history with satisfaction, for he is buried with affection. Far better is such a fate, than the freezing ceremony of a modern funeral. J. N. B. YESTERDAY. I. AND where are now thy sunny hours, Fond man, which shone but yesterday? Perchance thy path was rich with flowers, That glittered in thy joyous way; Perchance the Day's pure eye of light Was one interminable smile, And visions eloquent and bright Stirred thy wrapt soul with bliss the while. II. And where are they? The sweeping tide Of onward and resistless time Is strewn with wrecks of baffled pride-- Conceptions high, and hopes sublime! Dreams, that have shed upon the earth The gladdening hues of paradise; Their charm is flown, hush'd is their mirth, And all their kindling exstasies. III. It may be that the heart was sad, And wrapt in sorrow, yesterday; Perchance the scenes that once could glad Thy spirit, passed like spring away; That on the waste of years was seen Nought that might cheer the gloomy breast-- No sunny spot of vernal green, On which the thoughtful eye could rest. IV. What recks it now, that then a cloud Was dimly brooding o'er thy head; That to the tempest thou hast bowed, When joy's ephemeral beams had fled? That day hath gone--its care is o'er-- Its shadows all have passed away; Time's wave hath murmur'd by that shore, And round thee now is but to-day. V. Then what is yesterday?--a breath, A whisper of the summer breeze; A thing of silent birth and death, Colored by man's fond sympathies. It had its buds--they all are gone; Its fears--but they are now no more: Its hopes--but they were quickly flown-- Its pure delights--and they are o'er! VI. Look ye not back, save but to glean From the deep memories of the past-- From the illusions of each scene, The thought that time is flying fast: That VANITY on things of earth Is by a pointed diamond writ; Its hours of wild and transient mirth Are midnight skies by meteors lit. VII. Oh, what is yesterday?--a ray Which burst on being's troubled wave; Which passed like a swift thought away Unto eternity's wide grave! A star whose light hath left the sky-- But for a little moment given; Scarce gleaming on the gladdened eye, Ere it hath left the vault of heaven! VIII.