The present improvements at Whitehall make one exclaim with the poet,
Pope--
"I see, I see, where two fair cities bend
Their ample brow, _a new Whitehall ascend._"
Again,
"You too proceed, make falling arts your care,
_Erect new wonders, and the old repair;_
_Jones_ and Palladio to themselves _restore_,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before."
P.T.W.
* * * * *
THE UNIVERSE.
_(For the Mirror.)_
O light celestial, streaming wide
Through morning'd court of fairy blue--
O tints of beauty, beams of pride,
That break around its varied hue--
Still to thy wonted pathway true,
Thou shinest on serenely free,
Best born of _Him_, whose mercy grew
In every gift, sweet world, to thee.
O countless stars, that, lost in light,
Still gem the proud sun's glory bed,
And o'er the saddening brow of night
A softer, holier influence shed--
How well your radiant march hath sped.
Unfailing vestals of the sky,
As smiling thus ye weed from dread
The soul ye court to muse on high.
O flowers that breathe of beauty's reign,
In many a tint o'er lawn and lea,
That give the cold heart once again
A dream of happier infancy;
And even on the grave can be
A spell to weed affection's pain--
Children of Eden, who could see.
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