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Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze

That floats through neighboring copse or fairy brake, Or lingers, playful, on the haunted stream.

Go with the cotter to his winter fire,

When o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill,
And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon;
Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar,
Silent, and big with thought; and hear him bless
The God that rides on the tempestuous cloud,
For his snug hearth, and all his little joys.
Hear him compare his happier lot, with his
Who bends his way across the wintery wolds,
A poor night-traveller, while the dismal snow
Beats in his face, and dubious of his paths,
He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast,
He hears some village mastiff's distant howl,
And sees far streaming, some lone cottage light;
Then undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes,
And clasps his shivering hands, or overpowered,
Sinks on the frozen ground, weighed down with sleep,
From which the hapless wretch shall never wake.

Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise And glowing gratitude: he turns to bless With honest warmth, his Maker and his God. And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, Nursed in the lap of ignorance, and bred In want and labor, glows with noble zeal To laud his Maker's attributes, while he Whom starry science in her cradle rocked, And Castaly enchastened with its dews, Closes his eye upon the holy word; And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, Dares to declare his infidelity, And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts? Oh! I would walk A weary journey to the furthest verge Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God, Feeling the sense of his own littleness, Is as a child in meek simplicity! What is the pomp of learning? the parade Of letters and of tongues? Even as the mists, Or the gray morn before the rising sun,

That pass away and perish. Earthly things
Are but the transient păgeants of an hour;
And earthly pride is like the passing flower,
That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die.


Ode to Sickness.

The following ode was written by a young lady in the north of Eng land, who, for many years, had been oppressed with a hopeless consumption.

NOT to the rosy maid, whom former hours
Beheld me fondly covet, tune I now
The melancholy lyre: no more I seek
Thy aid Hygeia! sought so long in vain;
But 'tis to thee, O Sickness! 'tis to thee
I wake the silent strings; accept the lay.

Thou art no tyrant waving the fierce scourge
O'er unresisting victims-but a nymph
Of mild though mournful mien, upon whose brow
Patience sits smiling, and whose heavy eye,
Though moist with tears, is always fixed on heaven.
Thou wrapp'st the world in clouds, but thou canst tell
Of worlds where all is sunshine, and, at length,
When through this vale of sorrow thou hast led
Thy patient sufferers, cheering them the while.
With many a smile of promise, thy pale hand
Unlocks the bowers of everlasting rest;
Where Death's kind angel waits to dry their tears,
And crown them with his amaranthine flowers.

Yet have I known thee long, and I have felt
All that thou hast of sorrow-many a tear
Has fallen on my cold cheek, and many a sigh,
Call'd forth by thee, has swelled my aching breast;
Yet still I bless thee, O thou chastening power!
For all I bless thee: thou hast taught my soul
To rest upon itself, to look beyond

The narrow bounds of time, and fix its hopes
On the sure basis of eternity.

Mean-while, even in this transitory scene, Of what hast thou deprived me? Has thy hand Closed up the book of knowledge; drawn a veil O'er the fair face of nature; or destroyed The tender pleasures of domestic life?— Ah, no! 'tis thine to call forth in the heart Each better feeling; thou awaken'st there That unconfin'd philanthropy which feels For all the unhappy; that warm sympathy Which, casting every selfish care aside, Finds its own bliss in seeing others blest; That melancholy, tender yet sublime, Which, feeling all the nothingness of earth, Exalts the soul to heaven :-and, more than these, That pure devotion, which, even in the hour Of agonizing pain, can fill the eyes With tears of ecstasy-such tears, perhaps, As angels love to shed.

These are thy gifts, O Sickness! these to me Thou hast vouchsaf'd and taught me how to prize. Shall my soul shrink from aught thou hast ordained? Shall I e'er envy the luxurious train Along whose path Prosperity has strewed Her gilded toys? Ah! let them still pursue Those shining trifles; never shall they know Such pure and holy pleasures as await The heart refined by sufferings. Not to them Does Fancy sing her wild, romantic song; 'Tis not for them her glowing hand undraws The sacred veil that hides the angelic world. They hear not, in the music of the wind, Celestial voices, that, in whispers sweet, Call to the flowers-the young and bashful flowers! They see not, at the shadowy hour of eve, Descending spirits, who, on silver wings, Glide through the air, and, to their harps divine, Sing in soft notes the vesper hymn of praise; Or, pausing for a moment, as they turn Their radiant eyes on this polluted scene, Drop on their golden harps a pitying tear.

Prosperity! I court thy gifts no more, Nor thine, O fair Hygeia! Yet to thee

I breathe one fervent
prayer; attend my
If for my faded brow thy hand prepare
Some future wreath, let me the gift resign:
Transfer the rosy garland: let it bloom
Around the temples of that friend beloved,
On whose maternal bosom, even now,
I lay my aching head! and, as I mark
The smile that plays upon her speaking face,
Forget that I have ever shed a tear.



Reply to the Address of a Missionary, at a Council of the Chiefs of "the Six Nations," in 1805,-by Sagnyn Whathah, alias Red Jacket.-PHILANTHROPIST.

Friend and Brother!

Ir was the will of the Great Spirit, that we should meet together this day. He orders all things; and has given us a fine day for our council. He has taken his garment from before the sun, and caused it to shine with brightness Our eyes are opened that we see clearly; our ears are unstopped, that we have been able to hear distinctly the words you have spoken. For all these favors we thank the Great Spirit, and him only.

upon us.

Brother! Listen to what we say. There was a time when our forefathers owned this great island. Their seats extended from the rising to the setting sun: the Great Spirit had made it for the use of the Indians. He had created the buffalo, the deer, and other animals for food. He had made the bear and the beaver; their skins served us for clothing. He had scattered them over the country, and taught us how to take them. He had caused the earth to produce corn for bread. All this he had done for his red children, because he loved them. If we had disputes about our hunting ground, they were generally settled without the shedding of much blood. But an evil day came upon us; your forefathers crossed the great waters, and landed on this island: their numbers were small: they found us friends, and not enemies. They told us they had fled from their own country, through fear of wicked men, and had come here to enjoy their religion. They asked for a small seat; we took pity on them, and granted their request and they sat down amongst us. We gave them corn and meat, and,

in return, they gave us poison. The white people having now found our country, tidings were sent back, and more came amongst us; yet we did not fear them. We took them to be friends: they called us brothers; we believed them, and gave them a larger seat. At length their number so increased, that they wanted more land: they wanted our country. Our eyes were opened, and we became uneasy. Wars took place; Indians were hired to fight against Indians; and many of our people were destroyed. They also distributed liquor amongst us, which has slain thousands.

Brother! Once our seats were large, and yours were small. You have now become a great people, and we have scarcely a place left to spread our blankets. You have got our country, but, not satisfied, you want to force your religion upon us.

Brother! Continue to listen. You say you are sent to instruct us how to worship the Great Spirit agreeably to his mind, and that if we do not take hold of the religion which you teach, we shall be unhappy hereafter. How do we know this to be true? We understand that your religion is written in a book. If it was intended for us as well as you, why has not the Great Spirit given it to us; and not only to us, but why did he not give to our forefathers the knowledge of that book, with the means of rightly understanding it? We only know what you tell us about it, and having been so often deceived by the white people, how shall we believe what they say ?

Brother! You say there is but one way to worship and serve the Great Spirit. If there is but one religion, why do you white people differ so much about it? Why not all agree, as you can all read the book?

Brother! We do not understand these things: we are told that your religion was given to your forefathers, and has been handed down from father to son. We also have a religion which was given to our forefathers, and has been handed down to us: it teaches us to be thankful for all favors received, to love each other, and to be united: we never quarrel about religion.

Brother! The Great Spirit made us all; but he has made a great difference between his white and his red children :-he has given us different complexions and different customs. To you he has given the arts; to these he has not opened our eyes. Since he has made so great a difference between us in other things, why may he not have

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