Judging by the fate of nations, they will have passed away like a morning cloud. Look at the fame of Nineveh levelled in the dust. Search for the site of Babylon, with its walls and gates, its hanging gardens and terraces! Contemplate the ghost of the enlightened Athens, stalking through the ruins of her Parthenon, her Athenaeum, or Acropolis. Examine the shadow of power which now remains to the mighty Rome, the empress of the world. Even so will it be with England; ere ten centuries have rolled away, her sun-like splendour will illume a western world. Our stately palaces and venerable cathedrals, our public edifices and manufactories, our paintings and sculpture, will be fruitful subjects of conjecture and controversy to the then learned. And a fragment of a pillar from St. Paul's, or a mutilated statue from Westminster, will be as valuable to them as a column from the Temple of Belus, or a broken cornice from the Temple of Theseus, is now to us! D.A.H. * * * * * THE ROBIN. (_For the Mirror_.) Hark to the robin--whistling clear-- The requiem of the dying year-- Amidst the garden bower. He quits his native forest shade, Ere ruin stern hath there display'd Its desolating power. He sings--but not the song of love-- No,--that is for the quick'ning grove-- The brightly budding tree. And tho' we listen and rejoice; In melody that sweet-ton'd voice Implores our charity. The birds of passage take their flight To other lands--of warmth and light-- Where orient breezes blow. While here the little red-breast stays, And sweetly warbles out his lays, Amidst the chilling snow. When the keen North congeals the stream That sparkled in the summer-beam-- Chink--chink--the Robin comes. His near approach proclaims a dearth Of food upon the ice-bound earth;-- He whistles for our crumbs. But, like the child of want, he hails Too oft where avarice prevails-- Devoid of charity;-- Where hearts 'neath rich-clad bosoms glow, Yet never feel the inspiring throe Of tender sympathy. Tho' pleas'd with wildly-warbled song, The minstrel's life will they prolong With food and shelter warm? No,--see, to shun the cruel snare, Again he wings the frozen air, And dies amidst the storm. How sweeter far it were to see The bird familiar, fond, and free, With confidence intrude;-- To see him to the table come, And hear him sing o'er ev'ry crumb A song of gratitude. C. COLE. * * * * * BUYING AND SELLING THE DEVIL. (_For the Mirror._[3]) "Every thing may be had for money," is an old remark, and perhaps no less true.