To the utmost has this fearful prophecy been fulfilled: Babylon has been destroyed; the cruelties with which she visited Jerusalem were repaid her in full by the awful justice of the Almighty, and the happy fame of her Persian conqueror has long been firmly fixed in history. What sublime, prophetic power in those simple words—“ who art to be destroyed ”—when addressed by the weeping captive to the mighty city, then in the height of her power and her pride! That destruction has long since been complete; Babylon is wasted indeed; and we learn with interest from the traveller, that beside her shapeless ruins, stand the “ gray ozier willows, on which the captives of Israel hung up their harps;” mute and humble witnesses of the surrounding desolation.
Wednesday, 3d.—Pleasant walk on the open hill-side. Sweet, quiet day; if the leaves were out, they would not stir, for the winds are all asleep. Walking over pasture-ground, we did not find many flowers: only a few violets here and there, and some young strawberry flowers, the first fruit-bearing blossom of the year. The fern is coming up, its woolly heads just appearing above ground, the broad frond closely rolled within; presently the down will grow darker, and the leaves begin to uncurl. The humming-birds, and some of the many warblers, use the wool of the young fern-stalks to line their nests.
The valley looked pleasantly from the hill-side this afternoon; the wheat-fields are now very brilliant in their verdure, some of a golden green, others of a deeper shade. Nearly half the fields are ploughed this season, and the farms look like new-made gardens. As we stood on the quiet, open down, a sweet song, from a solitary bird, broke the stillness charmingly: it came from the
