Читать книгу The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4) - George W. M. Reynolds - Страница 137

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IT was the 1st of January, 1840.

The tide of Time rolls on with the same unvarying steadiness of motion, wearing off the asperities of barbarism, as the great flood of ocean smooths the sharp edges of rugged rocks.

But as the seasons glide away, vainly may we endeavour to throw a veil upon the past;—vainly do we lament, when Winter comes, that our Spring-dreams should be faded and gone, too beautiful to endure;—vainly, vainly do we pray that the waves of a Lethean sea may overwhelm the memories of those years when Time cast flowers from his brow, and diamonds from his wing!

Time looks down upon the world from the heights of the Pyramids of Egypt; and, as he surveys the myriad cities of the universe swarming with life—marks the mighty armies of all states, ready to exterminate and kill—views the navies of great powers riding over every sea—as he beholds all these. Time chuckles, for he knows that they are his own!

For the day must come when the Pyramids themselves, the all but immortal children of antiquity, shall totter and fall; and Time shall triumph over even these.

The strongest edifices crumble into dust, and the power of the mightiest nations fritters into shreds, beneath the hand of Time.

The glories of Sesostris are now a vague dream—the domination of Greece and Rome has become an uncertain vision: the heroes of the Crusades have long since mouldered in the earth;—the crescent of the Ottomans menaces Christendom no more: the armadas of Spain are extinct;—the thrones that Napoleon raised are cast down: of the millions that he led to conquest, during his meteor-like career, what numbers have left this busy scene for ever and how varied are the climes in which they have found their graves!