651. MODERN REPUBLICS. Where are the republics of modern times, which cluster d round immortal Italy! Venice, and Genoa exist, but in name. The Alps, indeed, look down upon the brave and peaceful Swiss, in their native fastnesses; but the guaranty of their freedom is in their weakness, and not in their stren.th. The mountains are not easily crossed, and the valleys are not easily retained. When the invader comes, he moves like an avalanche, carrying destruction in his path. The peasantry sink before him. The country is too poor for plunder; and too rough for valuable conquest. Nature presents her eternal barriers, on every side, to check the wantonness of ambition; and Switzerland remains, with her simple institutions, a military Toad to fairer climates, scarcely worth a permanent possession.

We

We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last experiment of self-government by the people. We have begun it, under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. are in the vigor of youth. Our growth has never been checked, by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been enfeebled by the vices, or luxuries of the old world. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning; simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government, and self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us, and any for midable foe. Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many products, and many means of independence. The government is mild. The press is free. Knowledze reaches, or may reach, every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented! What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary, than for the people to preserve, what they themselves have created?"

Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France, and the lowlands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of Germany, and the North, and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days.

Can it be, that America, under such circumstances, can betray herself! that she is. to be added to the catalogue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is-"They were, but they are not." Forbid it, my countrymen; forbid it, Heaven!-Story.

652. RAZOR SELLER.

A fellow, in a market-town.

Most musical, cried razors, up and down,
And offered twelve--for e ghteen-pence;
Wh, certainly, seem'd won trous cheap,
And, for the money, quite a heap,

That every man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard;
Poor Hodge who suffer'd by a broad black benrd.
That seemed a shoe- rush, stuck beneath his nose
With cheerfulness, the eighteen-pence he paid.
And proudly, to h mselt, in wh spers said--
This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.
"No matter if the fellow be a kuave,
Provided that the razors share;

It certainly will be a monstrous prize."

So home the clown, with his good fortune went,
Sin Ing.-in heart and soul content,
And quickly soaped himself to cars and eyes.

Being well lathered, from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began, with grinning pain, to grub-
Just like a hedger, cutting furze:
"Twas a vile razor-then the rest he tried;-
All were impostors. "Ah!" Holge s ghed,
"I wish my eighteen-pence was in my purse."
In vain, to chase his beard, and bring the graces
He cut and dug, and winned, and stamp'd, and

swore;

Bro't blood, and dare'd, blasphem'd and made wry
And curs'd each razor's body,o'er and o'er.[faces,
His muzzle. formed of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Fox te, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it-laughing at the steel, and suds.
Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst veng'nce, with clench'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
"Razors: a vile, confounded dog!--
Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow-found him-and begun,
Prhaps, Master Razor-rogue! to you, 'tis fun,
That people flay themselves out of their lives.
You rascal for an hour, have I been grubbing,
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors, just like oyster-knives.

Sirrah! I tell you, you 're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave."
"Fr end," quoth the razor man, "I'm not a knave;
As for the razors you have bought,-
Upon my soul, I never thought

That they would shave."

"Not think they'd thave? quoth Hodge, with

wond'ring eyes.

No

And vo ce, not much unlike an Indian yell, What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries. "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile," to sell." 653. UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION. I speak-in the spirt-of the British law, which makes liberty commensurate with, and inseparable from, the British soil,-which proclams, even to the stranger and the sojourner, the moment he sets his foot upon British earth, that the ground on which he treads-is holy, and consecrated-by the ge mius of UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION. matter in what language-his doom may have been pronounced; no matter what com plexion- ncompatible with freedom, an Indian, or an Afaean sun may have burnt upon him; no matter in what disastrous battle--s Iberty may have been cloven down; no matter with what solemnities-he may Fave been devoted-upon the altar of slavery; the first moment-he touches the sacred sol of Britain, the altar, and the god, sink together in the dust; his soul walks atroad in her own ma❤ jesty; his body swells beyond the measure of his chains, that burst from around hem, and he stands redeemed, re.enerated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible Lenius of | UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION.—Gruttun. When breezes are so, and skies are far, I steal an hour from study and care, And he me away-to the wood'an! scene, Where wanders the stream w th waterso green: As if the Irgat frige-of her son's! rik ilad given their stam, to the wave they drink.

655. ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. They have gone to the companions of their cares, of their foils. It is well with them. The treasures of America are now in Heaven. How long the list of our good, and wise, and brave, assembled there! how few remain with us! There is our Washington; and those who followed him in their country's confidence, are now met together with him, and all that illustrious company.

The faithful marble may preserve their image; the engraven brass may proclaim their worth; but the humblest sod of independent America, with nothing but the dewdrops of the morning to gild it, is a prouder mausoleum than kings or conquerors can boast. The country is their monument. Its independence is their epitaph.

But not to their country is their praise limited. The whole earth is the monument of illustrious men. Wherever an agonizing people shall perish, in a generous convulsion, for want of a valiant arm and a fearless heart, they will cry, In the last accents of deepair, Oh, for a Washington, an Adams, a Jefferson! Wherever a regenerated nation, starting up in its might, shall burst the links of steel that enchain it, the praise of our fathers shall be the prelude of their triumphal

song.

Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken,
In dreams, I revisit thy sea-beaten shore!
But alas! in a far distant land I awaken, [more]
And sigh for the friends, who can meet me no
9, hard, cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me,
In a mansion of peace, where no peri! can chase me!
Ah! never, again, shall my brother embrace me,
They died to defend me, or live-to deplore!
But yet, all its fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish-my lone bosom shall draw:
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing,

Land of my forefathers, ERIN Go Bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motton,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean,
And thy harp-striking hards sing aloud with devo-
O, ERIN MA VORNEEN, Erin Go BRAGH! [tion

657. THE HYPOCRITE.

He was a man,

Who stole the livery-of the court of heaven,
To serve the devil in; in virtue's guise,
Devoured the widow's house, and orphan's bread
In holy phrase, transacted villanies,
That common sinners-durst not meddle with.
At sacred feast, he sat among the saints,
And with his guilty hands-touched holiest things.

The contemporary and successive genera-And none of sin lamented more, or sighed
tions of men will disappear. In the long
lapse of ages, the tribes of America, like those
of Greece and Rome, may pass away. The
fabric of American freedom, like all things
human, however firm and fair, may crumble
into dust. But the cause in which these our
fathers shone is immortal. They did that, to
which no age, no people of reasoning men,
can be indifferent.

Their eulogy will be uttered in other languages, when those we speak, like us who speak them, shall all be forgotten. And when the great account of humanity shall be closed at the throne of God, in the bright list of his children, who best adorned and served it. shall be found the names of our Adams and our Jefferson.-Everett.

More deeply, or with graver countenance,
Or longer prayer, wept o'er the dying man,
Whose infant children, at the moment, he
Planned how to rob. In sermon-style he bought,
And sold, and lied; and salutation made,
In scripture terms. He prayed, by quantity,
And with his repetitions, long and loud.
All knees were weary With one hand, he put
A penny-in the urn of poverty,

[ing,

And with the other-took a shilling out.
On charitable lists,-those trumps, which told
The public ear, who had, in secret, done
The poor a benefit, and half the alms
They told of, took themselves to keep them sound-
He blazed his name, more pleased to have it there,
Than in the book of life. Seest thou the man!
A serpent with an angel's voice! a grave, [ceiv'd.
With flowers bestrewed! and yet, few were de-

656. EXILE OF ERIN.
There came to the beach-a poor exile of Erin,
The dew, on his thin robe, hung heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when, at twilight repair-His virtues, being over-done, his face,
To wander alone, by the wind-beaten hill: fing.
But the day-star-attracted his eyes' sad devotion,
For it rose-on his own native Isle of the Ocean,
Where once, in the glow of his youthful emotion,
He sung the bold anthem-of ERIN GO BRAGH!
O, sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf, to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge--from famine, or danger,

A home, and a country-remain not for me;
Ah! never, again, in the green sunny bow`rs, [hours,
Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet
Or cover my herp, with the wild woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers--of Erin Go BragH!
O,where is my cottage, that stood by the wild wood!
Sisters and sires, did ye weep for its fall? [hood,
O, where is the mother, that watch'd o'er my child-
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure,
O why did it doat-on a fast fading treasure-
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall, without mea-
But rapture, and beauty, they cannot recall! (sure,
BRONSON 18

Too grave, his prayers too long, his charities,
Too pompously attended. and his speech,
Larded too frequently, and out of time,
With serious phraseology-were rents,
That in his garments opened, in spite of him,
Thro' which, the well accustomed eye, could see
The rottenness of his heart. None deeper blush'd,
As in the all-piercing light he stood, exposed,
No longer herding--with the holy ones.
Yet still he tried to bring his countenance--
To sanctimonious seeming; but, meanwhile,
The shame within, now visible to all,
His purpose balk'd. The righteous sm-l'd, and even
Despair itself, some signs of laughter gave,
As, ineffectually, he strove to wipe
His brow, that inward guiltiness defiled.
Detected wretch! of all the reprobate.
None seem'd more mature--for the flames of hell,
Where still his face, from ane.ent custom, wears
A holy air, which says to all that pass
itim by, "I was a hypocrite on earth." -Pollock.

658. PARRHASIUS AND CAPTIVE. "Parrinsius, a painter of Athens, amongst those Olynthian captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man, and when he had him at his house, put him to death with

Glazes apace.

He does not feel you now-
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one-till I eclipse

extreme torture an! torment, the better, by his example, to express Conception with the scorn of those calm lip!

the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then
about to paint Barton's Anat. of Mel

There stood an unsold captive in the mart,
A gray-haired and majestical old man.
Chamed to a pillar. It was almost night,
And the last seller from his place had gone,
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
"Twas evening, and the half-descended sun
Tipped with a golden fire the many domes
Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere
Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street
Through which the captive gazed.
The golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole
From the dark pietures radiantly forth,
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere,
Like forms and landscapes, magical they lay.
Parrhasius stood, gazing, forgetfully,
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay
Cha ned to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus-
The vulture at his vitals, and the Links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth
With its far-reaching taney, and with form
And color clad them. his fine, earnest eye,
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip
Were like the winged God's, breathing from his
Bring me the captive now!

[flight.

My hands feel skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit a rily and swift,
And I could paint the bow

Upon the ben led heavens-around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

Ha bind him on his back!

Look as Prometheus in my picture here'
Quick or he faints! stand with the cordia near!
Now-bend him to the rack!

Press down the poison'd Inks into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
So-let him writhe! How long

Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha grav-haired, and so strong!
How tearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I cou'd but paint a dying groan!
Pity" thee! So I do!

A pity the dumb v etm at the altar--
But does the rol id priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee though I knew

A thousand Eves were perishing in thine-
What were ten thousand to a time like mine?
Yet there's a deathless name!

A spirt that the smothering vault shail spurn,
And Like steadfast planet mount and burn-
And though its crown of fame
Corsuined my brain to ashes as t shone,
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!

Ay-though it bid me ritle

My heart's last fount for its ansatiate thirst-
Though every Fe-strung nerve be maddened first;
Though it should b.d me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother t'll my brain went wild-

Shivering! Bark! he mutters
Brokenly now--that was a difficult breath
Another Wilt thou never come, oh, Deau'
Look! how his temples flutter!
Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders, gasps, Jove help him! so, he's
How like a mounting devil in the heart
Rules the unre gued ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders though,
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pop of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Leit in the bosom for the spirit's lip,
We look upon our splendor and forget
The thirst of which we perish!

O, if earth be all, and Heaven nothing.
What thrice mocked fools we are!-Willis.
NATURAL HISTORY OF LOVE,
Addressed to Dr. Moyce by the ladies.
Dear doctor, let it not transpire,
How much your lectures we admire;
How, at your eloquence we wonder,
When you explain the cause of thunder,
Of lightning, and electricity,
With so much plainness, and simplicity;
The origin of rocks, and mountains,
Of seas, and rivers, lakes, and fountains;
Of rain, and hail, and frost, and snow,
And all the storms, and winds that blow;
Besides a hundred wonders more,

Or which we never heard before.
But now, dear doctor, not to flatter,
There is a most important matter,

A matter which our thoughts run much on
A matter, which you never touch on,
A subject, if we right conjecture,
That well deserves a long, long lecture,
Which all the ladies would approve,-

The natural history of love!

Deny us not. dear doctor Moyce!
Oh. list to our entreating voice!
Tell us why our poor, tender hearts,
So easily admit love's darts.

Teach us the marks-of love's beginning,
What makes us think a beau so winning;
What makes us think a coxcomb, witty,
A black coat, wise, a red coat-pretty!
Why we believe such horrid es,
That we are angels, from the skies,
Our teeth like pearl. oar cheeks like roses,
Our eyes like stars-such charming noses!
Explain our dreams, awake, and sleeping,
Explain our blushing, laughing, weeping.
Teach us, dear doctor, if you can,
To humble that proud creature, man;
To turn the wise ones into fools,
The proud and insolent to tools;
To make them all run, helter-skelter,
Their necks-into the marriage-halter:
Then leave us to ourselves with these;
We'll turn and rule them as we please.
Dear doctor, if you grant our wishes,
We promise you-five-hundred kisses;
And, rather than the affair be blundered,
We'll give you-six-score to the hundred

[filled

659. SPEECH OF BELIAL, DISSUADING WAR.
I should be much for open war, oh peers,
As not behind in hate, if what were urged,
Main reason to persuade immediate war,
Did not dissuade me more, and seem to cast
Ominous conjecture on the whole success;
When he, who most excels in tact of arms,
In what he counsels, and in what excels,
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair,
And utter dissolution as the scope
Of all his aim, after some dire revenge.
First, what revenge?-The towers of heaven are
With armed watch, that render all access
Impregnable: oft, on the bordering deep,
Encamp their leg ons: or with obscure wing,
Scout far and wide, into the realms of night,
Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way
By force, and at our heels, all hell should rise,
With blackest insurrection, to confound
Heaven's purest light; yet our great enemy,
All incorruptible, would, on his throne,
S.t, anpolluted; and the etherial mold,
Incapable of stain, would soon expel
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
Victorious. Thus repaised, our final hope-
Is flat despair; we must exasperate

The almighty victor-to spend all his rage,
And that must end us; that-must be our cure,-
To be no more.-Sad cure!-for who would lose,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
Those thoughts, that wander through eternity,-
To perish rather, swallowed up, and lost,
In the wide tomb of uncreated night,
Devo d of sense, and motion?--And who knows
(Let this be good) whether our angry toe
Can give it, or will ever? How he can,
Is doubtful; that he never will, is sure.
Wil he, so w'se, let loose at once his ire,
Bel ke through impotence, or unawares,
To give his enemies their w sh, and end
Them his anger, who his anger saves
To pun sh en less? Wherefore cease ye then?"
Say they, who counsel war; we are decreed,
Reserved, and dest ned-to eternal wo:
Whatever doing,-what can we suifer more,
What can we suffer worse?" Is this then worst,
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms?
What, when we fled ama n, pursued and struck
With heaven's all et ng thunder, and besought
The deep to shelter us? this heil, then. seemed
A refuge from those wounds! or, when we lay,
Con ned on the burning lake? that sure was worse.
What if the breath, that kindled those grm fires,
A Aaked, shou d blow them into seven-fold rage,
And plunge us to the flames' or, from above,
Si ouid term tted vengeance-arm aga n
His red rght hand to plague us? what of all
Her stores were opened, and this firmament
Of hed-should spout her cataracts of fire,
Impening horrors, threaten ng hideous fail,
On day upon our heads; while we, perhaps,
Dging, or exhorting glorous war,
Caut in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled,
Eaca on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey
Ofracking wh rlwinds, or, for ever sunk
Under you bo Lng ocean, wrapped in cha no;
There to cot.verse-with everlast ng groans,

Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved,
Ages-of hopeless end?-this would be woTRE.
War, therefore, open and concealed, like
My voice dissuades.-Milton.

POMPEII. How serenely slept the star-light on that lovely city! how breathlessly its pil lared streets reposed in their security! how softly rippled the dark, green waves beyond! how cloudless spread aloft and blue the dreaming Campanian skies! Yet this was the last night for the gay Pompeii! the colony of the hoar Chaldean! the fabled city of Hercules! the delight of the voluptuous Roman' Ago after age had rolled indestructive, unl seded, over its head; and now the last ray quivered on the dial plate of its doom!

660. THE BEGGAR'S PETIT N.
Pity the sorrows | of a poor old man, [door;
Whose trembling Embs | have borne him to your
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store
These tatter'd clothes | my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years:
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect | drew me from my road;
For plenty there a residence has found,

And grandeur | a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirin, and poor!
Here, as I crav'd | a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial | drove me from the door,
To seek a shelter | in an humbler sled.

take me to your hospitable dome;
Keen blows the wind. and piercing is the cold!
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb;
For I am poor, and miserably old.
Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity | e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withheld the kind relief,
And tears of pity | would not be represt.
Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
'Tis Heav'n has bro't me to the state you see;
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow | and of m sery.

A little farm was my paternal lot:

Then, like the lark. I sprightly ha P'd the morn;
But ah! oppress on | fore'd me from my cot
My cattle died, and blighted was mny corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age.

Lur'd by a villan | from her native home,
Is cast, abandon'd, on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care
Struck with sad anguish at the strn decree,
Fell, lingring fel! a victim to despa,

And left the world to wretchedness an1 me.
Pay the sorrows | of a poor old man. 'door;
Whose trembing Imbs | have born: him to your
Whose days are dwindled | to the shortest sonn;
Oh! give relet, and Heav'n w II bless your store,

Canst thou ainthaster to a min! fusela
Fluck-from the mem ry- a row to a crow,
Rot out the written fru of the 'fai
*** #

A with me sheet of

Cleanse--the st 1.1 Lowa - (at periba a mul
Whach weighs-upon the heart?