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601. THE EFFECTS OF GENTLENESS. I 602. PRESS ON. This is a speech, brieg Gentlenes-is the great avenue to mutual but full of inspiration, and opening the way enjoyment. Amidst the strife of interfering to all victory. The mystery of Napoleon's interests, it tempers the violence of conten- career was this,--under all difficulties and tion, and keeps alive the seeds of harmony. discouragements, "PRESS ON!" It solves the It softens animosities, renews endearments, problem of all heroes; it is the rule, by which and renders the countenance of man, a re- to weigh rightly, all wonderful successes, and freshment to man. Banish gentleness from triumphal marches-to fortune and genius. the earth; suppose the world to be filled, It should be the motto of all, old--and young, with none but harsh and contentious spirits, high-and low, fortunate-and unfortunate, and what sort of society would remain? the so called. solitude of the desert were preferable to it. The conflict of jarring elements in chaos, the cave where subterraneous winds contend and roar, the den where serpents hiss and beasts of the forest howl, would be the only proper representation of such assemblies of men. Strange! that, where men have all one common interest, they should so often concur in defeating it. Has not nature already provided a sufficient quantity of evils for the state of man? As if we did not suffer enough from the storm which beats upon us without, must we conspire also, in those societies where we assemble, in order to find a retreat from that storm, to harass one another?

A NIGHT SCENE IN TURKEY.

'Twas midnight: on the mountains brown
The cold round moon-shone brightly down;
Blue rolled the ocean, blue the sky
Spread, like an ocean, hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright;
Who ever gazed upon them, shining,
And turned to earth, without repining,
Nor wished for wings to fly away,
And mix-with their eternal ray?
The waves, on either shore, lay there,
Calm, clear, and azure as the air,
And scarce their foam-the pebbles shook,
But murmured meekly, as the brook.
The winds were pillowed on the waves,
The banners drooped-along their staves,
And as they fell around them, furling,
Above them-shone the crecent curling;
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save when the watch-his signal spoke,
Save when the steed-neighed oft and shrill,
And echo answered-from the hill,
And the wide hum-of that wild host
Rustled, like leaves, from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air,
In midnight call-to wonted prayer.
It rose, that chaunted, mournful strain,
Like some lone spirit's-o'er the plain;
'Twas musical, but sadly sweet,

Such as, when winds, and harp-strings meet;
And take a long, unmeasured tone,
To mortal minstrelsy, unknown:

It seemed to those, within the wall,

A cry-prophetic of their fall;

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"PRESS ON!" Never despair; never be discouraged, however stormy the heavens, how ever dark the way; however great the diffi culties, and repeated the failures,---"PRESS ON!" If fortune-has played false with thee to-day, do thou play true for thyself to-mor row. If thy riches have taken wings, and left thee, do not weep thy life away; but be up and doing, and retrieve the loss, by new energies and action. If an unfortunate bargain-has deranged thy business, do not fold thy arms, and give up all as lost; but stir thyself, and work the more vigorously.

If those whom thou hast trusted, have betrayed thee, do not be discouraged, do not idly weep, but "PRESS ON!" find others; or, what is better, learn to live within thyself. Let the foolishness of yesterday-make thee wise to-day. If thy affections-have been poured out like water in the desert, do not sit down and perish of thirst,-but press on; a beautiful oasis is before thee, and thou mayst reach it, if thou wilt. If another-has been false to thee, do not thou increase the evil-by being false to thyself. Do not say-the world hath lost its poetry and beauty; 'tis not so; and even if it be so, make thine own poetry and beauty, by a brave, a true, and, abov all, a religious life.

ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.

Higher, higher, will we climb,

Up-the mount of glory,

That our names--may live through time,
In our country's story;
Happy, when her welfare calls,
He, who conquers,-he, who fails.
Deeper, deeper-let us toil,
In the mines of knowledge;
Nature's wealth-and Learning's spe
Win from school-and college;
Delve we there--for richer gems,
Than the stars of diadems.
Onward, onward-may we pass,
Through the path of duty;
Virtue is true happiness,

Excellence, true beauty;
Minds-are of celestial bath:
Make we, then, a heaven of earth

Closer, closer--let us knit
Hearts, and hands together,
Where our fireside comforts sit,

In the wildest weather;

O, they wander wide, who roam
For the joys of life, from home.
Nearer, dearer bands of love,
Draw our souls in union,

To our Father's house above
To the saints' communion:
Thither-ev'ry hope ascend,
There may all our labors end.

603 HANNIBAL TO HIS SOLDIERS. On what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all full of courage and strength; a veteran infantry, a most gallant cavalry; you, my allies, most faithful and valiant; you, Carthaginians, whom not only your country's cause, but the justest anger, impels to battle. The hope, the courage of assailants, is always greater than of those, who act upon the defensive. With hostile banners displayed, you are come down upon Italy; you bring the war. Grief, injuries, indignities, fire your minds, and spur you forward to revenge.

First, they demand me-that I, your general, should be delivered up to them; next, all of you, who had fought at the siege of Saguntum; and we were to be put to death-by the extrémest tortures. Proud, and cruel nation! every thing must be yours, and at your disposal! You are to prescribe to us, with whom we shall make war, with whom we shall make peace! You are to set us bounds; to shut us up within hills and rivers; but you-you are not to observe the limits, which yourselves have fixed.

Pass not the Iberus! What next? Touch not the Saguntines; is Saguntum upon the Iberus? move not a step towards that city. Is it a small matter, then, that you have deprived us of our ancient possessions, Sicily and Sardinia? you would have Spain, too? Well, we shall yield Spain; and then-you will pass into Africa! Will pass, did I say? this very year, they ordered one of their consuls into Africa, the other into Spain.

No, soldiers, there is nothing left for us, but what we can vindicate with our swords. Come on, then-be men. The Romans-may with more safety be cowards; they have their own country behind them; have places of refuge to flee to, and are secure from danger in the roads thither; but for you, there is no middle fortune between death, and victory. Let this be but well fixed in your minds, and once again, I say, you are conquerors.--Livy. 604. VULTURE AND CAPTIVE INFANT.

I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered thro' their vales,
And heard the honest mountaineers--relate their dismal tales,
As round the cotters' blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er,
They spake of those, who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of

more.

And there, I, from a shepherd, heard a narrative of fear,

A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers-might not hear:
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice-was tremulous;
But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:

"It is among these barren cliffs-the ravenous vulture dwells,
Who never fattens on the prey, which from afar he smells;
But, patient, watching our on hour, upon a lofty rock,
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.
One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,
When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,
As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief, and pain,
A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.

I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright,
The children never ceased to shriek; and, from my frenzied sight,
I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care;
But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing thro' the air.
Oh! what an awful spectacle-to meet a father's eye,-
His infant-made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry;
And know, with agonizing heart, and with a maniac rave,
That earthly power-could not avail-that innocent to save!
My infant-stretched his little hands-imploringly to me,
And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free:
At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked, and screamed
Until, upon tl e azur sky, lessening spot he seemed.

The vulture-flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he few;
A mote, upon the sun's broad face, he seemed unto my view;
But once, I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight,-
'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.
All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er
When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, [forgot,
From thence, upon a rugged crag-the chamois never reached,
He saw--an infant's fleshless bones--the elements had bleached:
I clambered up that rugged cliff,—I could not stay away,—
I knew they were my infant's bones-thus hastening to decay:
A tattered garment-yet remained, though torn to many a shred
The crimson cap-he wore that morn--was still upon his head"

That dreary spot-is pointed out to travelers, passing by,
Who often stand, and musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh;
And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,
The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.-nov
605. THE HERMIT.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still.
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove:
When nought, but the torrent, is heard on the hill,
And nought, but the nightingale's song, in the grove.
"Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit bega·
No more with himself, or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, tho' he fcit as a man.
"Ah! why, all abandon'd to darkness and wo;
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral.
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
O soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away.
Full quickly they pass--but they never return.
"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon, half extinguish'd, her crescent displays
But lately I mark'd, when, majestic on high,

She shone, and the planets were lost, in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and, with gladness, pursue

The path, that conducts thee to spiendor again:
But man's faded glory, what change shall renew!
Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more:
I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfuni'd with fresh fragrance, and glittering with daw
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save:
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn!
O, when shall day dawn, on the night of the grave
"Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd,
That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

O pity, great Father of light, then I cried,

Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt, and from darkness thou only, canst free.
"And darkness and doubt are now flying away:
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn:

So breaks on the traveler, faint and astray,

The bright, and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of death smiles, and roses are blending
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.--Beattis

O what a vision-were the stars,
When first I saw them burn on high,
Rolling along, like living cars

Of light, for gods to journey by.
The world--is full of poetry--the ar
Is living with its spirit; the waves-
Dance to the music of its melodies,
A ud sparkle-in its brightness.

In struggling with misfortunes,
Lies the true proof-of virtue.

606. THE CHARACTER OF WOMAN. The mfluence of the female character-is now felt, and acknowledged, in all the relations of life. I speak not now, of those distinguished women, who instruct their age through the public press. Nor of those, whose devout strains we take upon our lips, when we worship. But of a much larger class; of those, whose influence is felt in the relations of neighbor, friend, daughter, wife, mother.

Who waits at the couch of the sick, to administer tender charities, while life lingers, or to perform the last acts of kindness, when death comes? Where shall we look for those examples of friendship, that most adorn our nature; those abiding friendships, which trust, even when betrayed, and survive all changes of fortune? Where shall we find the brightest illustration of filial piety? Have you ever seen a daughter, herself, perhaps, timid and helpless, watching the decline of an aged parent, and holding out, with heroic fortitude, to anticipate his wishes, to administer to his wants, and to sustain his tottering steps to the very borders of the grave?

But in no relation-does woman exercise so deep an influence, both immediately, and prospectively, as in that of mother. To her is committed the immortal treasure of the infant mind. Upon her-devolves the care of the first stages of that course of discipline, which is to form a being, perhaps the most frail and helpless in the world, the fearless ruler of animated creation, and the devout adorer of his great Creator.

Her smiles call into exercise the first affections, that spring up in our hearts. She cherishes, and expands-the earliest germs of our intellects. She breathes over us her deepest devotions. She lifts our little hands, and teaches our little tongues to lisp in prayer. She watches over us, like a guardian angel, and protects us through all our helpless years, when we know not of her cares, and her anxieties, on our account. She follows us into the world of men, and lives in us, and blesses us, when she lives not otherwise upon the earth.

What constitutes the centre of every home? Whither do our thoughts turn, when our feet are weary with wandering, and our hearts sick with disappointments? Where shall the truant and forgetful husband go-for sympathy, unalloyed, and without design, but to the bosom of her who is ever ready, and waiting to share in his adversity, or prosperity? And if there be a tribunal, where the sins and the follies of a froward child-may hope for pardon and forgiveness, this side heaven, that tribunal-is the heart of a fond, and devoted mother.

INDIAN NAMES

"How can the red men be forgotten, whi

so may of our state

and territories, bays, lakes, and rivers, are indelibly stamped by
names of their giving?"

Ye say they all have pass'd away,
That noble race-and brave;
That their light canoes-have vanish'd
From off the crested wave;
That, 'mid the 'forests-where they roam'd,
There rings no hunter's shout;
But their name-is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.
'Tis where Ontario's billow-
Like ocean's surge-is curl'd;
Where strong Niagara's thunders-wake
The echo-of the world;
Where red Missouri-bringeth

Rich tribute-from the west;
And Rappahannock-sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their conelike cabins,

That cluster'd o'er the vale,
Have disappear'd, as wither'd leaves--
Before the autumn's gale;
But their memory--liveth on your hills,
Their baptism-on your shore ;
Your everlasting rivers-speak
Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts-wears it--
Within her lordly crown;
And broad Ohio--bears it-

Amid his young renown:
Connecticut-hath wreath'd it-

Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky-breathes it hoarse-
Through all her ancient caves.
Wachusett-hides its lingering voice-
Within his rocky heart,

And Alleghany-graves its tone-
Throughout his lofty chart.
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar,
Doth seal the sacred trust;
Your mountains-build their monument,
Though ye destroy their dust.

IMPROVEMENT OF MIND WITHOUT DIS. PLAY. Well-informed persons will easily be discovered, to have read the best books, tho' they are not always detailing lists of authors: for a muster-roll of names--may be learned from the catalogue, as well as from the library. The honey--owes its exquisite taste--to the fragrance of the sweetest flowers; yet the skill of the little artificer, appears in this, that the delicious stores are so admirably worked Finally, her influence is felt, deeply, in reli- up, and there is such a due proportion obgion. "If christianity, should be compelled served in mixing them, that the perfection of to flee from the mansions of the great, the the whole--consists in its not tasting, indi academies of philosophers, the halls of legis-vidually, of the rose, the jassamine, the carnalators, or the throng of busy men, we should find her last, and purest retreat-with woman at the fireside; her last altar-would be the female heart; her last audience would be the children gathered round the knees of the mother; her last sacrifice, the secret prayer, escaping in silence from her lips, and heard, perhaps, only at the throne of God." How empty, learning, and how vain is art; Save where it guides the life, and mends the heart. Fancy and pride reach things at vast expense.

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tion, or any of those sweets, of the very es-
sence of all which it is compounded. But
true judgment will discover the infusion,
which true modesty will not display; and
even common subjects, passing through
cultivated understanding, borrow a flavor of
its richness.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untaint'
Thrice is he armed, who hath his quarrel just;
And he, but naked, tho' locked in steel,
Whose conscience, with injustice is corrupted.

1

607. ODE ON THE PASSIONS.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet, in early Greece, she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Threng'd-around her magic cell;
Exu.ting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting.
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each-for Madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords, bewilder'd laid;
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings, own'd his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept, with hurried hands, the strings.

With woful measures, wan Despair

Low, sullen sounds! his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad, by fits-by starts, 'twas wild. But hou, O Hope; with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure! Still it whisper'd-promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She call'd on Echo still, through all her song. And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft, responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope, enchanted, smiled and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, Revenge-impatient rose,

[down;

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast, so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;

And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat. [tween, And though, sometimes, each dreary pause beDejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still, he kept his wild unalter'd mien;
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting
from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;
Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd: And, now, it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat, retired;

And, from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes, by distance, made more sweet,

[stole;

Pol thro' the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft, from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound.
Thro' glades and glooms, the mingled measure
Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay,
Round-a holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing-

In hollow murmurs-died away.
Rut, oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulders flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, [rung;
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste eyed
Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen, [queen
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear
Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;

But soon, he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet, entrancing voice he lov'd the best They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maida, Amid the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love, fram'd with Mirth, a gay fantastic round-
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors-from his dewy winge

608. THE CHESTNUT HORSE.

An Eaton stripling, training for the law,
A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw,

One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf

His cap and gown, and stores of learned pelf,
With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.
Return'd, and past the usual how-d'ye-does,
Inquiries of old friends, and college news:

"Well, Tom, the road; what saw you worth discerning?
How 's all at college, Tom?-what is 't you 're learning
"Learning!-0, logic, logic!--not the shallow rules
Of Locke and Bacon-antiquated fools!
But wits' and wranglers' logic; for d'ye see,
I'll prove as clear, -as clear as A. B. C.,
That an eel pie 'sa pigeon; to deny it,
Is to say black 's not black."-

"Come, let's try it!"
"Well, sir; an eel pie is a pie of fish." Agreed."
"Fish pie may be a jack pie."-" Well, well, proceed."
"A jack pie is a John pie-and, 'tis done!

For every John pie must be a pie-John."-(pigeon.)
"Bravo! bravo!" Sir Peter cries; "logic forever!
That beats my grandmother, and she was clever;
But now I think on 't, 't would be mighty hard
If merit such as thine met no reward;
To show how much I logic love in course,
I'll make thee master of a chestnut horse."
"A horse!" quoth Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces
O, what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!"

Tom dreamt all night of boots and leather breeches,
Of hunting-caps, and leaping rails and ditches;
Rose the next morn an hour before the lark,
And dragg'd his uncle, fasting, to the park;
Bridle in hand, each vale he scours of course,
To find out something like a chestnut horse;
But no such animal the meadows cropt,

Till under a large tree Sir Peter stopt,

Caught at a branch, and shook it, when down fell

A fine horse chestnut, in its prickly shell.

"There, Tom, take that."-" Well, sir, and what besale

"Why, since you 're booted, saddle it and ride."

"Ride! what, a chestnut, sir ?"-" Of course,

For I can prove that chestnut is a horse;

Not from the doubtful, fusty, musty rules
Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools,

Nor old Malebranch, blind pilot into knowledge,
But by the laws of wit and Eton college;
As you have prov'd, and which I don't deny,
That a pie John's the same as a John pie,
The matter follows, as a thing of course,

That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut horse."

Know, Nature's children all divide her care;
The fur, that warms a monarch, warm'd a bear.
While man exclaims, "See all things for my use!*
"See man for mine!" replies the pamper'd goose.
And just as short of reason-he must fall,
Who thinks all made for one, not one--for all.

609. NATIONAL UNION. Do not, gentlemen, suffer the rage of passion to drive reason from her seat. If this law be indeed bad, let us join to remedy its defects. Has it been passed in a manner which wounded your pride, or roused your resentment? Have, I conjure you, the magnanimity to pardon that offence. I entreat, I implore you, to sacrifice those angry passions to the interests of our country. Pour out this pride of opinion on the altar of patriotism. Let it be an expiatory libation for the weal of America. Do not suffer that pride to plunge us all into the abyss of ruin. Indeed, indeed, it will be but of little, very little avail, whether one opinion or the other be right or wrong; it will heal no wounds, it will pay no debts, it will rebuild no ravaged towns. Do not rely on that popular will, which has brought us frail beings into political existence. That opinion is but a changeable thing. It will soon change. This very measure will change it. You will be deceived. Do not, I beseech you, in reliance on a foundation so frail, commit the dignity, the harmony, the existence of our nation to the wild wind. Trust not your treasure to the waves. Throw not your compass and your charts into the ocean. Do not believe that its billows will waft you into port. Indeed, indeed, you will be deceived. Cast not away this only anchor of cur safety. I have seen its progress. I know the difficulties through which it was obtained. I stand in the presence of Almighty God and of the world. I declare to you, that if you lose this charter, never, no never, will you get another. We are now perhaps arrived at the parting point. Here, even here, we stand on the brink of fate. Pause, then-pause. For Heaven's sake, pause.-Morris.

ATHEIST AND ACORN.

"Methinks the world-seems oddly made,
And every thing-amiss ;"
A dull, complaining atheist said,
As stretched he lay-beneath the shade,
And instanced it-in this:
"Behold," quoth he, "that mighty thing,
A pumpkin, large, and round,
Is held but by a little string,
Which upwards cannot make it spring,
Nor bear it from the ground.
While on this oak-an acorn small,
So disproportioned grows,
That whosoe'er surveys this all,
This universal casual ball,

Its ill contrivance knows.
My better judgment-would have hung
The pumpkin-on the tree,
And left the acorn-slightly strung,
'Mongst things-that on the surface sprung,
And weak and feeble be."

No more-the caviler could say,

No further faults descry;

For, upwards gazing, as he lay,

An acorn, loosened from its spray,

Fell down upon his

eye.

The wounded part-with tears ran o'er,
As punished for that sin;

Fool! had that hough--a pumpkin bore,
Thy whimseys-would have worked no more,
Nor skull-have kept them in.

RY.

MY COUNTRY,

I love my country's pine-clad hills,
Her thousand bright, and gushing rills,
Her sunshine, and her storms;
Her rough and rugged rocks, that rear
Their hoary heads, high in the air
In wild fantastic forms.

I love her rivers, deep and wide,
Those mighty streams, that seaward glide
To seek the ocean's breast;

Her smiling fields, her pleasant vales,
Her shady dells, her flow'ry dales,
The haunts of peaceful rest.

I love her forests, dark and lone,
For there-the wild birds' merry tone,
I heard from morn-till night;
And there-are lovlier flowers I ween,
Than e'er in eastern lands were seen,

In varied colors bright. Her forests and her valleys fair, Her flowers, that scent the morning air, Have all their charms for me; But more-I love my country's name, Those words, that echo deathless fame, "The land of LIBERTY."-Anon. 610. SUBLIMITY OF MOUNTAIN SCENE. Of all the sights, that nature offers te the eye, and mind of man, mountains-have always stirred my strongest feelings. I have seen the ocean, when it was turned up from the bottom by tempest, and noon-was like night, with the conflict of the billows, and the storm, that tore, and scattered them, in mist and foam, across the sky. I have seen the desert rise around me, and calmly, in the midst of thousands, uttering cries of horror, and paralysed by fear, have contemplated the sandy pillars, coming like the advance of some gigantic city of conflagration-flying across the wilderness, every column glowing with intense fire, and every blast-death; the sky-vaulted with gloom, the earth-a furnace. But with me, the mountain, in tempest, or in calm, the throne of the thunder, or with the evening sun, painting its dells and declivities in colors dipped in heaven-has been the source of the most absorbing sensations. There stands magnitude, giving the instant impression of a power above man-grandeur, that defies decay-antiquity, that tells of ages unnumbered-beauty, that the touch of time makes only more beautiful--use, ex haustless for the service of man-strength imperishable as the globe; the monument of eternity,--the truest earthly emblem of that ever-living, unchangeable, irresistible Majesty, by whom and for whom, all things were made!-Croly.

The time shall come, the fated hour is nigh.
When guiltless blood-shall penetrate the sky
Amid these horrors, and involving night,
Prophetic visions flash before my sight;
Eternal justice wakes, and, in their turn,
The vanquished—triumph, and the victors mourn!
A hungry lean-faced villain,

A mere anatomy, a mountebank,

A thread-bare juggler, and a fortune-teller,
A needy, hollou -eyed, sharp-looking wretch,
A living-dead man.

False pleasure-from abroad her joys imparts.

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