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DETACHED THOUGHTS. “ NEWTON is justly extolled. The reasoning power which he displayed in the mathematical forms of syllogizing, has seldom been approached, never surpassed. A sterling instance of his à priori penetration is the inference from its refractive power that the diamond would be found inflammable, though he knew no method of exposing it to combustion. His use of words is less skilful than his use of signs. Such combinations of phrase as vis inertiæ, where the terms are interdestructive, and of course unintelligible, occur in his writings. His chronology disappoints ; it wants erudition; it wants sagacity; the very ground-work of the system reposes on authorities, which deserved apprecia. : tion, but not confidence.”

“Time was when literary epitomizers were in fashion, when a Wynne obtained a reputation by stripping Locke of his driftless ambiguity and voluminous tautology. Time is, when literary expanders are in vogue, and the materials of a pamphlet, in order to be rendered saleable, must be diluted into a quarto. Time will be, when acres of barren paper will be willingly exchanged for a small but fertile garden; and when merit will be meted not by the magnitnde but by the quality of its efforts."

“ Every religious sect which unites itself with the state, is favourable either to despotism or revolution, as it suits its interests. The Catholics were the first moderns who justified tyrannicide, and the Presbyterians brought back Charles the Second. The established clergy concurred with Charles the First in every act of tyranny, and they expelled bis son."

“ The great, except upon public occasions, are not Jiberal according to their means; it seems as if they had little sense of sufferings which they never can themselves experience. The travelling mendicant goes to the farm or to the cottage door rather than to the great house; and it is a well-known fact, that street beggars receive the greatest part of their alms from female seryants. Want blunts the feelings; wealth hardens the heart; it was for this reason that He who best knew the human heart said, how difficult it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.”

A. A. R.

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SUBJECT OF THE PLATE.
FROM LORD BYRON'S "SIEGE OF CORINTH."
“UPON his hand she laid her own---
Light was the touch but it thrilled to the bone,
And shot a chillness to his heart,
Which fixed him beyond the power to start.
Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold,
He could not loose him from its hold;
But never did clasp of one so dear
Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear,
As those thin fingers long and white,
Froze through his blood hy their touch that night.
The feverish glow of his brow was gone,
And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone,
As he looked on the face, and beheld its hue
So deeply changed from what he knew :
Fair but faint--without the ray
Of mind, that made each feature play
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day;
And her motionless lips lay still as death,
And her words came forth without her breath,
And there rose not a heave on her bosom's swell,
And there seemed not a pulse in her veins to dwell.
Though her eye shone out yet the lids were fixed,
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmixed
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem
Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream;
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare,
Stirred by the breath of the wintry air,
So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light,
Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight;
As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down
From the shadowy wall where their images frown;
Fearfully flitting to and fro,
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go."

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TRANSLATION FROM THE MORESCO.
OH! Lady, breathe no sigh for those,

And let no tear be shed,
Who rest in battle-field their head,

And sleep amid their country's foes
The slumber of the dead.
Thy pearly tears may stream around

Thy loved one's aching pillow;
Or weep some darling soul who found

A grave beneath the billow;
Or like a widow'd matron twine
The cypress and the jessamine,

And strew the lily in its bloom,

Round the cold precincts of the tomb,
Where one is laid you fondly prest,
A youthful bridegroom to your breast.
Thongh lovely were the wreath you wove

As fairy hands could twine,
And heart forlorn ne'er gave to love,

A form more pure than thine ;
Yet, Lady, weave no wreath for those,

And let no tear be shed,
Who rest in battle-field their head,

And sleep amid their country's foes,
The slumber of the dead.
For, oh! the warrior's fate may claim
A brighter meed, a higher fame;
He in the field of glory fell,
And thundering cannon rung his knell.
For him there is a holier sigh
In every wind that passes hy;
And Heaven more precious tears shall shed
Round the unburied soldier's head.
But oft at morn and evening dim,
Oh! breathe a silent prayer for him;
And do thou to his soul impart
The warmest wishes of his heart.

F***.

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