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That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands,
And bids us not delight in Roman blood
Uvprofitably shed. What men could do
Is done already. Heaven and earth will witness,
If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.

The land of beauty, and of grandeur, lady,
Where looks the cottage out on a domain
The palace cannot boast of. Seas of lakes,
And hills of forests; crystal waves that rise
'Midst mountains all of snow, and mock the sun,
Returning him his flaming beams more thick
And radiant than he sent them. Torrents there
Are bounding floods! and there the tempest roams
At large, in all the terrors of its glory!
And then our valleys! ah, they are the homes
For hearts ! our cottages, our vineyards, orchards,–
Our pastures studded with the herd and' fold !
Our native strains that melt us as we sing them!
A free-a gentle-simple-honest people!


But thou, 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 called 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 waved her golden hair

Fight, gentlemen of England ! fight, bold yeomen!
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head:
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;
Amaze the welkin with your broken staves--
A thousand hearts are great within my bosom :
Advance our standards, set upon our foes ;
Our ancient word of courage, fair St. George,
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons !
Upon them! Victory sits on our helms.

All silent they went, for the time was approaching,
The moon the blue zenith already was touching ;
No foot was abroad on the forest or hill,
No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill.

There is no breeze upon the fern,

No ripple on the lake;
Upon her eyrie nods the ern,

The deer hath sought the brake ;
The small birds will not sing aloud,

The springing trout lies still;
So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,

Benledi's distant hill.
There breathed no wind their crests to shake,

Or wave their flags abroad :
Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake,

That shadowed o'er their road :
No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang,

Still were the pipe and drum;
Save heavy tread and armour's clang,

Their sullen march was dumb.

MODERATE AND CONVERSATIONAL FORCE. As there is an external call and an internal, (the former universal, but often ineffectual; the latter personal, but always efficient,) so there is an outward revelation of Christ, and an internal, of which the understanding and the heart are the seat. Hence it is, with the utmost propriety, said to be a revelation “in us.” The minds of men, until they are renewed, resemble an apartment shut up and enclosed with something which is not transparent; the light shines around with much splendour, but the apartment remains dark, in consequence of its entrance being obstructed. Unbelief, inattention, love of the world and of sin, hardness of heart, form the obstructions in question. Let these be removed, and the discoveries of the word penetrate and diffuse a light and conviction through the soul: “The light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.” Thus it was with St. Paul before his conversion: his prejudices against the gospel were inveterate; his animosity violent and active; but no

sooner was Christ revealed in him, than all was changed.—R. Hall.

DECLAMATORY FORCE. I speak in the spirit of the British law, which makes liberty commensurate with, and inseparable from, British soil; which proclaims even to the stranger and sojourner, the moment he sets foot upon British earth, that the ground on which he treads is holy, and consecrated by the genius of Universal Emancipation. No matter in what language his doom may have been pronounced—no matter what complexion incompatible with freedom, an Indian or an African sun may have burned upon him-no matter in what disastrous battle his liberty may have been cloven down—no matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the altar of slavery; the first moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and the god sink together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in her own majesty; his body swells beyond the measure of his chains, that burst from around him, and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of Universal Emancipation.— Curran.

That which ALEXANDER sighed for,

That which CÆSAR's soul possess’d,
That which heroes, kings, have died for,

Glory! animates my breast.
Hark! the charging trumpets' throats
Pour their death-defying notes ;
“ To arms !” they call; to arms I fly,
Like WOLFE to conquer, and like WOLFE to die!

Rejoice, ye Men of Angiers, ring your bells !
King John, your King and England's, doth approach,
Open your gates and give the victors way.

Liberty ! freedom! tyranny is dead.
Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets !

The seal is set.—Now welcome, thou dread power!
Nameless yet thus omnipotent, which here
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear;
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear
That we become a part of what has been,
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen.


Before the gates there sat
On either side, a formidable shape ;
The one seemed woman to the waist, and fair,
But ended foul in many a scaly fold
Voluminous and vast, a serpent arm’d
With mortal sting : about the middle round
A cry of hell-hounds, never ceasing, barked
With wide Cerberean mouths, full loud, and rung
A hideous peal, yet when they list would creep,
If aught disturb'd their noise, into her womb,
And kennel there; yet there still bark'd and howl'd
Within unseen.

The other shape,
If shape it might be call’d that shape had none,
Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd,
For each seem'd either ; black it stood as night,
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,
And shook a dreadful dart; what seem'd his head
The likeness of a kingly crown had on.

MODERATE. If the relation of sleep to night, and in some instances its converse be real, we cannot reflect without amazement upon the extent to which it carries us. Day and night are things close to us: the change applies immediately to our sensations ; of all the phenomena of nature it is the most obvious, and the most familiar to our experience; but in its cause, it belongs to the great motions which are passing in the heavens; while the earth glides around her axle, she ministers to the alternate necessities of the animals dwelling upon her surface, at the same time that she obeys the influences of those attractions which regulate the order of many thousand worlds. The relation, therefore, of sleep to-night, is the relation of the inhabitants of the earth, to the rotation of their globe, probably it is more; it is a relation to the system of which the globe is a part; and, still further, to the congregation of systems, of which their’s is only one. If this account be true, it connects the meanest individual with the universe itself; a chicken, roosting upon its perch with the spheres revolving in the firmament.


But, oh! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung :
The hunter's call, to Faun and dryad known.

The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs, and Sylvan Boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green. Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leap'd up and seiz'd his beechen spear.

QUICK. One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger stood near, So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur, They'll have fleet steeds that follow !" quoth young. Lochinvar. There was mounting ʼmong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they rau ; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see ! So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young


Now strike the golden lyre again !
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain !
Break his bands sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder!

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