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642. NOBILITY OF LABOR. Why, in the | 643. DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM. great scale of things, is labor ordained for us? Easily, had it so pleased the great Ordainer, might it have been dispensed with. The world itself, might have been a mighty machinery, for producing all that man wants. Houses might have risen like an exhalation, "With the sound

Of dulcet symphonies, and voices sweet, Built like a temple." Gorgeous furniture might have been placed in them, and soft couches and luxurious banquets spread, by hands unseen; and man, clothed with fabrics of nature's weaving, rather than with imperial purple, might have been sent to disport himself in those Elysian

palaces.

"Fair scene!" I imagine you are saying: "fortunate for us had it been the scene ordained for human life!" But where, then, had been human energy, perseverance, patience, virtue, heroism? Cut off labor with one blow, from the world, and mankind had sunk to a crowd of Asiatic voluptuaries.

No-it had not been fortunate! Better, that the earth be given to man as a dark mass, whereupon to labor. Better, that rude, and unsightly materials be provided in the ore-bed, and in the forest, for him to fashion in splendor and beauty. Better I say, not because of that splendor, and beauty, but, because the act of creating them, is better than the things themselves; because exertion is nobler than enjoyment; because the laborer is greater and more worthy of honor, than the idler.

I call upon those whom I address, to stand up for the nobility of labor. It is heaven's great ordinance for human improvement. Let not the great ordinance be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; and it has been broken down for ages. Let it then be built again; here, if any where, on the shores of a new world-of a new civilization.

But how, it may be asked, is it broken down? Do not men toil? it may be said. They do indeed toil, but they too generally do, because they must. Many submit to it, as in some sort, a degrading necessity; and they desire nothing so much on earth, as an escape from it. They fulfil the great law of labor in the letter, but break it in the spirit. To some field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should hasten, as a chosen, coveted field of improvement.

But so he is not compelled to do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in idleness. This way of thinking, is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system, under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away.

Ashamed to toil? Ashamed of thy dingy work-shop, and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hand, scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weatherstained garments, on which mother nature has embroidered mist, sun and rain, fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of those tokens, and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness, and vanity? It is treason to nature, it is impiety to heaven; it is breaking heaven's great ordinance. Toil, I repeat-toil, either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility!-Dewey.

The king-stood still,
Till the last echo-died: then, throwing off
The sack-cloth-from his brow, and laying back
The pall-from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe :-
"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death-should settle-in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee-for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!

Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,

As to my bosom-I have tried to press thee.
How was I wont-to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet-'my father,' from these
And cold lips, Absalom!
[dumb,

The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me—in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses-to the soft winds flung;
But thou-no more, with thy sweet voice, shall
To meet me, Absalom!
[come

But, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,

Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, [token!

Yearn for thine ear-to drink its last-deep
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
So see thee, Absalom!

And now-farewell! 'Tis hard-to give thee up,
With death-so like a gentle slumber on thee:
And thy dark sin!-oh! I could drink the cup,

If, from this wo, its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer,
He covered up his face, and bowed himself,
My erring Absalom ?"
[home,
A moment, on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands, convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up, calmly, and composed the pall,
Firmly, and decently, and left him there,—
As if his rest-had been a breathing sleep. Willis.
The theatre was from the very first,
The favorite haunt of sin; though honest men,
Some very honest, wise and worthy men,
Maintained it might be turned to good account:
And so perhaps it might, but never was.
From first-to last-it was an evil place:
And now-such things were acted there, as made
The devils blush: and, from the neighborhood,
Angels, and holy men, trembling, retired:
And what with dreadful aggravation-crowned
This dreary time, was-sin against the light.
All men knew God, and, knowing, disobeyed;
And gloried to insult him-to his face.
Look round-the habitable world, how few-
Know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue!
'Tis all men's office-to speak patience-
To those that toil-under a load of sorrow.
'This the first sanction-nature-gave to man,
Each other to assist, in what they can

644. MARCO BOZZARRIS.

He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were-"To die for liberty, is a pleasure, and not a pain."

At midnight,-in his guarded tent,

The Turk-was dreaming of the hour,
When Greece,-her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble-at his power.

In dreams, through camp-and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then, wore his monarch's signet ring:
Then, pressed that monarch's throne,―a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight,-in the forest shades,
Bozzarris-ranged his Suliote band,
True-as the steel-of their tried blades,
Heroes-in heart-and hand.

There, had the Persian's thousands stood,
There, had the glad earth-drunk their blood,
On old Platea's day;

And now, there breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires, who conquered there,
With arm-to strike, and soul-to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on-the Turk-awoke-
That bright dream-was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke to die, 'midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,

And death-shots-falling thick and fast
As lightnings, from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice, as trumpet loud,
Bozzarris-cheer his band:

"Strike! till the last armed foe expires;
Strike! for your altars, and your fires;
Strike! for the green graves of your sires;
God-and your native land!"

They fought, like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground-with Moslem slain;
They conquered-but, Bozzarris fell,

Bleeding-at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang the proud-hurrah!
And the red field was won;

Then saw, in death, his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers-at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber,-Death!
Come to the mother-when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come-when the blessed seals,
That close the pestilence, are broke,
And crowded cities-wail its stroke;
Come-in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come, when the heart beats high, and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine-
And thou art terrible! the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Of
agony, are thine.

But, to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice-sounds like a prophet's word, And, in its hollow tones, are heard

The thanks of millions-yet to be. Bozzarris! with the storied brave,

Greece nurtured, in her glory's time, Rest thee-there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. We tell thy doom-without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame'sOne of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born-to die.-Halleck.

645. MAID OF MALAHIDE.

In the church of Malahide, in Ireland, are the tomb and effigy of the Lady Maid Plunkett, sister of the first Lord Dunsanny, of whom it is recorded that "she was maid, wife, and widow in one day." Her first husband, Hussy, Baron of Galtrim, was called from the altar to head "a hosting of the English against the Irish," and was brought back to the bridal banquet a corpse, upor the shields of his followers.

The dark-eyed Maid-of Malahide,
Her silken bodice laced,
And on her brow,-with virgin pride,
The bridal chaplet-placed.

Her heart--is beating high, her cheek
Is flushed-with rosy shame,
As laughing bridemaids-slily speak,
The gallant bridegroom's name.
The dark-eyed Maid-of Malahide-
Before the altar-stands,

And Galtrim-claims his blushing bride,
From pure and holy hands :—
But hark! what fearful sounds are those?
"To arms! to arms!" they cry;-
The bride's sweet cheek-no longer glows,
Fear-sits in that young eye.

The gallants-all are mustering now-
The bridegroom's helm-is on:
One look,-upon that wretched brow:
One kiss, and he is gone ;-

The feast is spread,-but many a knight,
Who should have graced that hall—
Will sleep-anon, in cold moonlight,
Beneath a gory pall.

The garlands-bright with rainbow dyes,
In gay festoons-are hung;

The starry lamps-out-shine the skies,
The golden harps are strung:
But she-the moving spring of all,

Hath sympathy-with none
That meet in that old festive hall;-

And now-the feast's begun.
Hark! to the clang of arms! is 't he,
The bridegroom chief,-returned,—
Crowned-with the wreath of victory
By his good weapon-earned?
Victorious bands-indeed-return,—
But, on their shields-they bear-
The laurelled chief,-and melt-those stern-
At that young bride's despair.
"Take-take-the roses from my brow,
The jewels-from my waist;

I have no need-of such things now :"
And then-her cheek-she placed-
Close-to his dead-cold cheek, and wept,-
As one may wildly weep,

When the last hope,--the heart had kept,

Lies buried-in the deep.

Long years have passed,-since that young

Bewailed-her widowed doom:

[bride

The holy walls--of Malahide-
Still-shrine her marble tomb :-
And sculpture there-has sought to prove,
With rude essay-of art,

That form-she wore in life,-whose love

Did grace-her woman's heart.-Crawford. The influence of example-is a terrible responsibility-on the shoulders of every individual.

646. AARON BURR AND BLENNERHAS- and the seductive, and fascinating power of SETT. Who, then, is Aaron Burr, and what his address. The conquest was not a diffi the part which he has borne in this transac- cult one. Innocence is ever simple, and tion? He is its author; its projector; its ac- credulous; conscious of no design itself, tive executor. Bold, ardent, restless, and as- suspects none in others; it wears no guards piring, his brain conceived it; his hand before its breast: every door, and portal, and brought it into action. Beginning his opera- avenue of the heart is thrown open, and all, tions in New York, he associates with him, who choose it, enter. Such, was the state of men, whose wealth is to supply the neces- Eden, when the serpent entered its bowers. sary funds. Possessed of the mainspring, The prisoner, in a more engaging form, windhis personal labor contrives all the machine- ing himself into the open and unpracticed ry. Pervading the continent from New-York heart of the unfortunate Blennerhassett, found to New-Orleans, he draws into his plan, by but little difficulty, in changing the native every allurement which he can contrive, men character of that heart, and the objects of its of all ranks, and all descriptions. To youth- affection. By degrees, he infuses into it the ful ardor he presents danger and glory; to poison of his own ambition; he breathes into ambition, rank, and titles, and honors; to av-it the fire of his own courage; a daring and desarice, the mines of Mexico. To each person perate thirst for glory; an ardor, panting for whom he addresses, he presents the object all the storm, and bustle, and hurricane of life. adapted to his taste: his recruiting officers are In a short time, the whole man is changed, appointed; men are engaged throughout the and every object of his former delight relincontinent: civil life is indeed quiet upon the quished. No more he enjoys the tranquil surface; but in its bosom this man has con- scene; it has become flat, and insipid to his trived to deposit the materials, which, with taste; his books are abandoned; his retort, the slighest touch of his match, produces an and crucible, are thrown aside; his shrubbery explosion, to shake the continent. All this in vain blooms, and breathes its fragrance uphis restless ambition has contrived; and, in on the air-he likes it not; his ear no longer the autumn of 1806, he goes forth, for the last drinks the rich melody of music; it longs for time, to apply this match. On this excur- the trumpet's clangor, and the cannon's roar; sion he meets with Blennerhassett. even the prattle of his babes, once so sweet, Who is Blennerhassett? A native of Ire- no longer affects him; and the angel smile of land, a man of letters, who fled from the his wife, which hitherto touched his bosom storms of his own country to find quiet in ours. with ecstasy so unspeakable, is now unfelt His history shews, that war is not the natu- and unseen. Greater objects have taken posral element of his mind; if it had been, he session of his soul-his imagination has been would never have exchanged Ireland for dazzled by visions of diadems, and stars, and America. So far is an army from furnishing garters, and titles of nobility: he has been the society, natural and proper to Mr. Blen- taught to burn with restless emulation at the nerhassett's character, that on his arrival in names of Cromwell, Cesar, and Bonaparte. America, he retired, even from the popula- His enchanted island is destined soon to retion of the Atlantic states, and sought quiet, lapse into a desert; and, in a few months, and solitude, in the bosom of our western for- we find the tender, and beautiful partner of ests. But he carried with him taste, and sci- his bosom, whom he lately "permitted not ence, and wealth; and "lo, the desert smiled." the winds of" summer "to visit too roughly," Possessing himself of a beautiful island in we find her shivering, at midnight, on the the Ohio, he rears upon it a palace, and dec- winter banks of the Ohio, and mingling her orates it with every romantic embellishment tears with the torrents, that froze as they fell. of fancy. A shrubbery, that Shenstone might Yet, this unfortunate man, thus deluded from have envied, blooms around him; music that his interest, and his happiness-thus seduced might have charmed Calypso and her nymphs, from the paths of innocence, and peace-thus is his; an extensive library spreads its treas- confounded in the toils, which were deliberures before him; a philosophical apparatus ately spread for him, and overwhelmed by offers to him all the secrets, and mysteries of the mastering spirit, and genius of anothernature; peace, tranquillity, and innocence this man, thus ruined, and undone, and made shed their mingled delights around him; and, to play a subordinate part in this grand drama to crown the enchantment of the scene, a of guilt and treason-this man is to be called wife, who is said to be lovely even beyond the principal offender; while he, by whom he her sex, and graced with every accomplish-was thus plunged, and steeped in misery, is ment, that can render it irresistible, had blessed him with her love, and made him the father of her children. The evidence would convince you, that this is but a faint picture of the real life.

In the midst of all this peace, this innocence, and this tranquillity, this feast of the mind, this pure banquet of the heart-the destroyer comes he comes-to turn this paradise-into a hell-yet the flowers do not wither at his approach, and no monitory shuddering, through the bosom of their unfortunate possessor, warns him of the ruin, that is coming upon him. A stranger presents himself. Introduced to their civilities, by the high rank which he had lately held in his country, he soon finds his way to their hearts, by the dignity, and elegance of his demeanor, the light and beauty of his conversation,

comparatively innocent-a mere accessory.
Sir, neither the human heart, nor the human
understanding will bear a perversion so mon-
strous, and absurd; so shocking to the soul;
so revolting to reason. O! no sir. There is
no man who knows anything of this affair,
who does not know that to every body con-
cerned in it, Aaron Burr was as the sun to
the planets, which surround him; he bound
them in their respective orbits, and gave them
their light, their heat, and their motion. Let
him not then shrink-from the high destina-
tion, which he has courted; and having al-
ready ruined Blennerhassett in fortune, char-
acter, and happiness, forever, attempt to fin-
ish the tragedy, by thrusting that ill-fated
man between himself and punishment.
The royal bee, queen--of the rosy bower,
Collects her precious sweets-from every flower.

So

647. TALENTS ALWAYS ASCENDANT. | as unavailing, as would a human effort "to Talents, whenever they have had a suitable quench the stars."-Wirt. theatre, have never failed to emerge from obscurity, and assume their proper rank in the estimation of the world. The jealous pride of power may attempt to repress, and crush them; the base, and malignant rancor of impotent spleen, and envy-may strive to embarrass and retard their flight: but these efforts, so far from achieving their ignoble purpose, so far from producing a discernible obfiquity, in the ascent of genuine, and vigorous talents, will serve only to increase their momentum, and mark their transit, with an additional stream of glory.

When the great earl of Chatham-first made his appearance in the house of commons, and began to astonish, and transport the British parliament, and the British nation, by the boldness, the force, and range of his thoughts, and the celestial fire, and pathos of his eloquence, it is well known, that the minister, Walpole, and his brother Horace, from motives very easily understood, exerted all their wit, all their oratory, all their acquirements of every description, sustained and enforced by the unfeeling" insolence of office," to heave a mountain on his gigantic genius, and hide it from the world. Poor and powerless attempt! The tables were turned. He rose upon them, in the might, and irresistible energy of his genius, and, in spite of all their convulsions, frantic agonies, and spasms, he strangled them, and their whole faction, with as much ease as Hercules did the serpent Python.

Who can turn over the debates of the day, and read the account of this conflict between youthful ardor, and hoary-headed cunning, and power, without kindling in the cause of the tyro, and shouting at his victory? That they should have attempted to pass off the grand, yet solid and judicious operations of a mind like his, as being mere theatrical start and emotion; the giddy, hair-brained eccentricities of a romantic boy! That they should have had the presumption to suppose themselves capable of chaining down, to the floor of the parliament, a genius so etherial, towering and sublime, seems unaccountable! Why did they not, in the next breath, by way of crowning the climax of vanity, bid the magnificent fire-ball to descend from its exalted, and appropriate region, and perform its splendid tour along the surface of the earth?

[sire

648. RICH AND POOR MAN.
goes the world;-if wealthy, you may call
This, friend, that, brother; friends and brothers all;
Tho' you are worthless-witless-never mind it:
You may have been a stable-boy-what then?
'Tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable men.
You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it.
But, if you are poor, heaven help you! tho' your
Had royal blood within him, and tho' you
Possess the intellect of angels, too,
"Tis all in vain;-the world will ne'er inquire
On such a score:-Why should it take the pains?
"Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains.
I once saw a poor fellow, keen, and clever,
Witty, and wise:-he paid a man a visit,
And no one noticed him, and no one ever [is it?"
Gave him a welcome. "Strange," cried I, "whence
He walked on this side, then on that,
He tried to introduce a social chat;
Now here, now there, in vain he tried;
Some formally and freezingly replied, and some
Said, by their silence-"Better stay at home."
A rich man burst the door,

As Cræsus rich; I'm sure

He could not pride himself upon his wit,
And as for wisdom, he had none of it;
He had what's better; he had wealth.

What a confusion!-all stand up erect-
These-crowd around to ask him of his health;
These-bow in honest duty, and respect;
And these-arrange a sofa or a chair,
And these-conduct him there.
"Allow me, sir, the honor;"-Then a bow-
Down to the earth-Is 't possible to show
Meet gratitude-for such kind condescension?-
The poor man-hung his head,
And, to himself, he said,

"This is indeed, beyond my comprehension:"
Then looking round,

One friendly face he found,
And said, "Pray tell me why is wealth preferred,
To wisdom?"-"That's a silly question, friend!"
Replied the other-" have you never heard,
A man may lend his store
Of gold, or silver ore,
But wisdom-none can borrow, none can lend?"

THE ABUSE OF AUTHORITY.

O, it is excellent

To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.
Could great men thunder
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet:
For every pelting, petty officer,
would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but
[thunder.
Merciful heaven!

Talents, which are before the public, have nothing to dread, either from the jealous pride of power, or from the transient misrepresentations of party, spleen, or envy. In spite of opposition from any cause, their buoyant spirit will lift them to their proper grade. The man who comes fairly before the world, and who possesses the great, and vigorous stami11, which entitle him to a niche in the temple or glory, has no reason to dread the ultimate result; however slow his progress may be, he will, in the end, most indubitably receive that distinction. While the rest, "the swallows of science," the butterflies of genius, may flutter Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, for their spring; but they will soon pass Split the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, away, and be remembered no more. No en-Than the soft myrtle.-O, but man, proud man, terprising man, therefore, and least of all, the Drest in a little brief authority; truly great man, has reason to droop, or re- Most ignorant of what he 's most assur'd, pine, at any efforts, which he may suppose to be made, with the view to depress him. Let, His glassy essence,-like an angry ape, then, the tempest of envy, or of malice howl Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, around him. His genius will consecrate him; As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens, and any attempt to extinguish that, will be Would all themselves laugh mortal.-Shakspeare.

649. THE MANIAC; MAD-HOUSE.
Stay, jailor, stay-and hear my woe!
She is not mad-who kneels to thee;
For what I'm now-too well I know,

For what I was-and what should be.
I'll rave no more-in proud despair;
Mv anguage shall be mild-though sad:
But yet I'll firmly-truly swear,

I am not mad-I am not mad.
My tyrant husband-forged the tale,
Which chains me-in this dismal cell;
My fate unknown-my friends bewail;
Oh! jailor, haste-that fate to tell;
Oh! haste-my father's heart to cheer:
His heart, at once--'twill grieve, and glad,
To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad;-I am not mad.

He smiles--in scorn, and turns-the key;
He quits the grate; I knelt in vain;
His glimmering lamp, still, still I see--
'Tis gone, and all is gloom again.
Cold--bitter cold!--No warmth no light!
Lite, all thy comforts once I had;
Yet here I'm chained,-this freezing night,
Although not mad; no, no, not mad.
'Tis sure some dream,-some vision vain :

What! I,-the child of rank-and wealth,

Am I the wretch-who clanks this chain,

Bereft of freedom,-friends and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more-my heart must glad,
How aches my heart,-how burns my head;
But 'tis not mad ;-no, 'tis not mad.
Hast thou, my child-forgot ere this,

A mother's face,-a mother's tongue?
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,
Nor round her neck-how fast you clung;
Nor how with me--you sued to stay;

Nor how that suit--your sire forbade ;
Nor how--I'll drive such thoughts away;
They'll make me mad; they'll make me mad.
His rosy lips,-how sweet they smiled!

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!
None--ever bore a lovelier child:

And art thou now forever--gone?
And must I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?

I will be free! unbar the door!

I am not mad ;-I am not mad.
Oh! hark! what mean those yells, and cries?
His chain--some furious madman breaks;
He comes,-I see his glaring eyes;

Now, now-my dungeon-grate he shakes.
Help! help!-He's gone! Oh! fearful wo,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain, my brain,-I know, I know,
I am not mad, but soon shall be.
Yes, soon;-for, lo you!-while I speak--
Mark how yon Demon's eye-balls glare!
He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent-high in air.
Horror!-the reptile-strikes his tooth-
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;
Ay, laugh, ye fiends; I feel the truth;

Your task is done!-I'm mad! I'm mad!
Here didst thou dwell, in the enchanted cover,
Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating,
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; [ing,
The purple moonlight vail'd that mystic meet-
With her most starry canopy, and, seating
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell?
This cave was surely shaped out for the greet-
Of an enamor'd goddess, and the cell
Haunted by holy love-the earliest oracle!
Children, like tender scions, take the bow,
And, as they first are fashioned-always grow.

[ing

650. THE ALPS.

Proud monuments of God! sublime ye stand
Among the wonders of his mighty hand:
With summits soaring in the upper sky, [eye;
Where the broad day looks down with burning
Where gorgeous clouds in solemn pomp repose,
Flinging rich shadows on eternal snows:
Piles of triumphant dust, ye stand alone,
And hold in kingly state, a peerless throne!
Like olden conquerors, on high ye rear
The regal ensign, and the glittering spear:
Round icy spires, the mists, in wreaths unrolled,
Float ever near, in purple or in gold:
And voiceful torrents, sternly rolling there,
Fill with wild music, the unpillared air:
What garden, or what hall on earth beneath,
Thrills to such tones, as o'er the mountains
breathe ?
[shone,
There, through long ages past, those summits
Where morning radiance on their state was
thrown;

There, when the summer day's career was done,
Played the last glory of the sinking sun;
There, sprinkling lustre o'er the cataract's shade,
The chastened moon, her glittering rainbow
made;

Where to still vales,the free streams leaped away.
And, blent with pictured stars, her lustre lay,

Where are the thronging hosts of other days,
Whose banners floated o'er the Alpine ways;
Who, through their high defiles, to battle, wound,
While deadly ordnance stirr'd the h'ights around?
Gone; like the dream, that melts at early morn,
When the lark's anthem through the sky is borne:
Gone; like the wrecks, that sink in ocean's spray,
And chill oblivion murmurs; Where are they?

Yet, "Alps on Alps" still rise; the lofty home
Of storms, and eagles, where their pinions roam;
Still, round their peaks, the magic colors lie,
Of morn, and eve, imprinted on the sky;
And still, while kings and thrones, shall fade,

and fall,

And empty crowns lie dim upon the pall; [roar;
Still, shall their glaciers flash; their torrents
Till kingdoms fail, and nations rise no more.

ADHERENCE TO TRUTH. Petrarch, a celebrated Italian poet, who flourished about four hundred years ago, recommended himself to the confidence and affection of Cardinal Colonna, in whose family he resided, by his candor, and strict adherence to truth. A violent quarrel occurred in the household of this nobleman; which was carried so far, that recourse was had to arms. The Cardinal wished to know the foundation of this affair; and that he might be able to decide with justice, he assembled all his people, and obliged them to bind themselves, by a most solemn oath on the gospels, to declare the whole truth. Every one, without exception, submitted to this determination; even the Bishop of Luna, brother to the Cardinal was not excused. Petrarch, in his turn, presenting himself to take the oath; the Cardinal closed the book, and said, "As to you, Petrarch, your word is sufficient."

'Tis done, and since 'tis done, 'tis past recall; And since 'tis past recall, must be forgotten. Never purchase friendship by gifts.

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