Remorseless Time!—­
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!—­what power
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt
His iron heart to pity!  On, still on
He presses, and forever.  The proud bird,
The condor of the Andes, that can soar
Through heaven’s unfathomable depths, or brave
The fury of the northern hurricane,
And bathe his plumage in the thunder’s home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down
To rest upon his mountain crag; but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness;
And Night’s deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinion.

Revolutions sweep
O’er earth, like troubled visions o’er the breast
Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink
Like bubbles on the water; fiery isles
Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back
To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow
Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise,
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down, like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations; and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,
Glitter awhile in their eternal depths,
And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away,
To darkle in the trackless void; yet Time,
Time the tomb builder, holds his fierce career,
Dark, stern, all pitiless, and pauses not
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and muse, like other conquerors,
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

CI.  A NEW CITY IN COLORADO. (358)

Helen Hunt Jackson, 1830-1885, was the daughter of the late Professor Nathan W. Fiske, of Amherst College.  She was born in Amherst, and educated at Ipswich, Massachusetts, and at New York.  Mrs. Jackson was twice married.  In the latter years of her life, she became deeply interested in the Indians, and wrote two books, “Ramona,” a novel, and “A Century of Dishonor,” setting forth vividly the wrongs to which the red race has been subjected.  She had previously published several books of prose and poetry, less important but charming in their way.  The following selection is adapted from “Bits of Travel at Home.” ###

Garland City is six miles from Fort Garland.  The road to it from the fort lies for the last three miles on the top of a sage-grown plateau.  It is straight as an arrow, looks in the distance like a brown furrow on the pale gray plain, and seems to pierce the mountains beyond.  Up to within an eighth of a mile of Garland City, there is no trace of human habitation.  Knowing that the city must be near, you look in all directions for a glimpse of it; the hills ahead of you rise sharply across your way.  Where is the city?  At your very feet, but you do not suspect it.