ÆäÀÌÁö À̹ÌÁö
PDF
ePub

[wild

707. THE STREAM OF LIFE. Life-bears | In park, in city, yea, in routs and balls, us on like the stream of a mighty river. Our The hat was worn, and borne. Then folks grew

boat, at first glides down the narrow channel, through the playful murmurings of the little brook, and the windings of its grassy border. The trees shed their blossoms over our young heads, the flowers, on the brink, seem to offer themselves to our young hands; we are happy in hope, and we grasp eagerly, at the beauties around us; but the stream hurries on, and still our hands are empty.

Our course in youth, and manhood, is along a wider, and deeper flood, and amid objects more striking, and magnificent. We are animated by the moving picture of enjoyment, and industry, which passes before us; we are excited by some short-lived success, or depressed, and made miserable, by some equally short-lived disappointment. But our energy, and our dependence are both in vain. The stream bears us on, and our joys, and our griefs, are alike, left behind us; we may be shipwrecked, but we cannot anchor; our voyage may be hastened, but it cannot be delayed; whether rough or smooth, the river hastens towards its home, till the roaring of the ocean is in our ears, and the tossing of the waves is beneath our keel; and the lands lessen from our eyes, and the floods are lifted up around us, and the earth loses sight of us, and we take our last leave of earth, and of its inhabitants; and of our further voyage, there is no witness, but the Infinite and the Eternal. And do we still take so much anxious thought for future days, when the days which have gone by, have so strangely, and uniformly deceived us? Can we still so set our hearts on the creatures of God, when we find by sad experience, the Creator only is permanent? Or, shall we not rather lay aside every weight, and every sin which doth most easily beset us, and think of ourselves, henceforth, as wayfaring persons only, who have no abiding inheritance, but in the hope of a better world, and to whom even that world would be worse than hopeless, if it were not for our Lord Jesus Christ, and the interest we have obtained in his mercies.

708. THE OLD HAT.

I had a hat-it was not all a hat-
Part of the brim was gone, -yet still, I wore
It on, and people wondered, as I passed.
Some, turned to gaze-others, just cast an eye,
And soon withdrew it, as 'twere in contempt.
But still, my hat, although so fashionless,
In complement extern, had that within,
Surpassing show-my head continued warm;
Being sheltered from the weather, spite of all
The want (as has been said,) of brim.

A change came o'er the color of my hat.

That, which was black, grew brown, and then
men stared

With both their eyes (they stared with one before);
The wonder now, was twofold-and it seemed
Strange, that things so torn, and old, should still
Be worn, by one who might but let that pass!
I had my reasons, which might be revealed,
But, for some counter reasons far more strong,
Which tied my tongue to silence. Time passed on.
Green spring, and flowery summer-autumn
brown,

And frosty winter came, and went, and came-
And still, through all the seasons of two years,

With curiosity, and whispers rose,
And questions passed about-how one so trim
In coats, boots, pumps, gloves, trousers, could
His caput-in a covering so vile. [ensconce
A change came o'er the nature of my hat-
Grease-spots appeared-but still in silence, on
I wore it-and then family, and friends
Glared madly at each other. There was one,
Who said-but hold-no matter what was said,
A time may come, when I-away-away--
Not till the season's ripe, can I reveal
Thoughts that do lie too deep for common minds,
Till then, the world shall not pluck out the heart
Of this, my mystery. When I will-I will!-
The hat was now-greasy, and old, and torn-
But torn-old-greasy--still I wore it on.
A change came o'er the business of this hat.
Women, and men, and children, scowled on me;
My company was shunned-I was alone!
None would associate with such a hat-
Friendship itself proved faithless, for a hat.
She, that I loved, within whose gentle breast
I treasured up my heart, looked cold as death--
Love's fires went out-extinguished-by a hat.
Of those, that knew me best, some turned aside,
And scudded down dark lanes-one man did place
His finger on his nose's side, and jeered-
Others, in horrid mockery, laughed outright;
Yea, dogs, deceived by instinct's dubious ray,
Fixing their swart glare on my ragged hat,
Mistook me for a beggar--and they barked.
Thus, women, men, friends, strangers, lover,
One thought pervaded all-it was my hat. [dogs,
A change-it was the last--came o'er this hat.
For lo! at length, the circling months went round,
The period was accomplished-and one day
This tattered, brown, old, greasy coverture,
(Time had endeared its vileness,) was transferr'd
To the possession of a wandering son-

Of Israel's fated race and friends once inore
Greeted my digits, with the wonted squeeze :
Once more I went my way-along-along-
And plucked no wondering gaze-the hand of
With its annoying fi..ver-men, and dogs, [scorn
Once more grew.ess, jokeless, laughless,
growlless:

And last, not least of rescued blessings, love-
Love smiled on me again, when I assumed
A bran new beaver of the Andre mould;
And then the laugh was mine, for then came out
The secret of this strangeness,-'twas a BET.
What are riches, empire, pow'r,

But larger means to gratify the will?
The steps on which we tread, to rise and reach
Our wish; and that obtain'd, down with the scaf-
folding
[served their end,
Of sceptres, crowns, and thrones; they have
And are, like lumber, to be left and scorn'd.
Honor and virtue-are the boons we claim;
Nought gives a zest to life, when they are fled;
Nought else, can fan aright the holy flame:
And, should they perish, every hope is dead.

The man, who builds, and lacks wherewith to pay,
Provides a house-from which to run away.

1

709. LOCHINVAR.

708. CHARACTER OF PITT. The secretary-stood alone; modern degeneracy-had O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

not reached him. Original, and unaccommodating, the features of his character-had the hardihood of antiquity. His august mind overawed majesty: and one of his sovereigns thought royalty-so impaired in his presence, that he conspired to remove him, in order to be relieved from his superiority. No state chicanery, no narrow system of vicious politics, sank him to the vulgar level of the great; bt overbearing, persuasive, and impracticade, his object-was England, his ambition was fame. Without dividing, he destroyed party; without corrupting, he made a venal age unanimous.

France

sank beneath him. With one hand, he smote the house of Bourbon, and wielded, with the other, the democracy of England. The sight of his mind was infinite; and his schemes were to affect, not England, and the present age only, but Europe, and posterity. Wonderful were the means, by which these schemes were accomplished; always seasonable, always adequate, the suggestions of an understanding, animated by ardor, and enlightened by prophecy. The ordinary feelings, which rende: life amiable, and indolent, were unknown to him. No domestic difficulty, no domestic weakness reached him; but, aloof from the sordid occurrences of life, and unsullied by its intercourse, he came, occasionally, into our system, to counsel, and to decide. A character so exalted, so strenuous, so various, and so authoritative, astonished a corrupt age; and the Treasury trembled at the name of Pitt, thro' all her classes of venality. Corruption imagined, indeed, that she had found defects in this statesman; and talked much of the ruin of his victories; but the history of his country, and the calamities of the enemy, refuted her. Nor were his political abilities-his only talents: his eloquence-was an era in the senate; peculiar, and spontaneous, familiarly expressing gigantic sentiments, and instinctive wisdom; not like the torrent of Demosthenes, or the splendid conflagration of Tully, it resembled sometimes the thunder, and sometimes the music of the spheres. He did not, like Murray, conduct the understanding through the painful subtlety of argumentation, nor was he, like Townshend, forever on the rack of exertion; but, rather, lightened upon the subject, and reached the point by flashings of the mind, which, like those of his eye, were felt, but could not be followed.

Upon the whole, there was something in this man, that could create, subvert, or reform; an understanding, a spirit, and an eloquence, to summon mankind to society, or to break the bonds of slavery asunder, and to rule the wilderness of free minds with unbounded authority - something that could establish, or overwhelm empires, and strike a blow in the world, which should resound throughout the universe. -Grattan.

Reward him for the noble deed, just Heaven!
For this one action, guard him, and distinguish him,
With signal mercies and with great deliverances;
Save him from wrong, adversity and shame:
Let never-fading honor flourish round him,
And consecrate his name ev'n to time's end:
Let him know nothing but good on earth,
And everlasting blessedness hereafter.

[none.

Thro' all the wide border, his steed was the best-
And save his good broadsword, he weapon had
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. [none,
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight, like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river, where ford there was
But ere he alighted, at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late.
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen, of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
[all,
'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,
"O come ye in peace, here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To tread but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochin-

var."

The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar;
"Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom-stood dangling his bonnet
[ter by far,
And the bride maidens whispered, ""T were bet-
To have match'd our fair cousin, with young

and plume,

[blocks in formation]

They'll have swift steeds that follow," quoth
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Nether-
by clan,
[they ran,
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and
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 gallant in war, [invar?
Have you e'er heard of gallant like young Loch-

The good merchant wrongs not the buyer
in number, weight, or measure. These are
the landmarks of all trading, which must not
be removed: for such cosenage were worse
than open felony. First, because they rob a
man of his purse, and never bid him stand.
Secondly, because highway thieves defy, but
these pretend, justice. Thirdly, as much as
lies in their power, they endeavor to make
God accessory to their cosenage, deceiving,
by pretending his weights.

[blocks in formation]

The public papers-have announced an event, which is well calculated to excite the sympathy -of every American bosom. KOSCIUSKO, the martyr of Liberty, is no more! We are informed, that he died at Soleure, in France, some time in October last.

In tracing the events of this great man's life, we find in him, that consistency of conduct, which is the more to be admired, as it is so rarely to be net with. He was not, at one time, the friend of mankind, and at another, the instrument of their oppression; but he preserved, throughout his whole carcer, those noble principles, which distinguished him in its commencement; which influenced him, at an early period of his life, to leave his country-and his friends, and, in another hemisphere, to fight for the rights of humanity. Kosciusko was born, and educated, in Poland; (of a noble, and distinguished family,) a country, where the distinctions in society are, perhaps, carried to greater lengths, than in any other. His Creator had, however, endowed him with a soul capable of rising above the narrow prejudices of a caste, and breaking the shackles, which a vicious education had imposed on his mind. When he was very young, he was informed, by the voice of Fame, that the standard of liberty had been erected in America-that an insulted and oppressed people-had determined to be free, or perish-in the attempt. His ardent and generous mind-caught, with enthusiasm, the holy flame, and from that moment he became the dovoted soldier of liberty. His rank in the American army-afforded him no opportunity--greatly to

erty, and independence, was a work of as much difficulty, as danger. But, to a mind like Kosciusko's, the difficulty, and danger of an enterprise -served as stimulants to the undertaking.

The annals of those times-give us no detailed account of the progress of Kosciusko, in accomplishing his great work, from the period of his return to America, to the adoption of the new constitution of Poland, in 1791. This interval, however, of apparent inaction, was most usefully employed to illumine the mental darkness, which enveloped his countrymen. To stimulate the igfuture emancipation to teach a proud, but galnorant and bigotted peasantry with the hope of lant nobility, that true glory is only to be found, in the paths and duties of patriotism; -interests the most opposed, prejudices-the most stubborn, and habits-the most inveterate, were reconciled, dissipated, and broken, by the ascendancy of his virtues and example. The storm, which he had foreseen, and for which he had been preparing, at length burst upon Poland. A feeble and unpopular government-bent before its fury, and submitted itself to the Russian yoke of the invader. But the nation disdained to follow its example; in their extremity, every eye was turned on the hero, who had already fought their battles, the sage, who had enlightened them, and the patriot, who had set the example of personal sacrificesto accomplish the emancipation of the people.

distinguish himself. But he was remarkable--throughout the career of victory, which, for a

through his service, for all the qualities which adorn the human character. His heroic valor in the field, could only be equaled-by his moderation and affability, in the walks of private life. He was idolized by the soldiers for his bravery, and beloved and respected by the officers, for the goodness of his heart, and the great qualities of his mind.

alissimo of Poland, with unlimited powers, until Kosciusko-was unanimously appointed generthe enemy should be driven from the country. On his virtue, the nation reposed with the utmost confidence; and it is some consolation to reflect, amidst the general depravity of mankind, that two instances, in the same age, have occurred, where powers of this kind were employed-solely for the purposes for which they were given. It is not my intention, sir, to follow the Polish chief considerable time, crowned his efforts. Guided by his talents, and led by his valor, his undisciplined, ill-armed militia-charged, with effect, the rassiers of the great Frederic, for the first time, veteran Russian and Prussian; the mailed cuibroke-and fled, before the lighter, and more appropriate cavalry of Poland. Hope filled the breasts of the patriots. After a long night, the dawn of an apparently glorious day-broke upon Poland. But to the discerning eye of Kosciusko, the light which it shed-was of that sickly, and portentous appearance, indicating a storm more dreadrul than that, which he had resisted.

Contributing greatly, by his exertions, to the establishment of the independence of America, he might have remained, and shared the blessings it dispensed, under the protection of a chief, who loved and honored him, and in the bosom of a grateful and affectionate people. Kosciusko had, however, other views. It is not known, that until the period I am speaking of, he had formed any distinct idea of what could, or indeed what ought to be done for his own country. But in the Revolutionary war, he drank, deeply, of the principles, which produced it. In his conversations with the intelligent men of our country, he acqui--to a second Arnold. The day at length came

red new views of the science of government, and

He prepared to meet it with firmness, but with means entirely inadequate. To the advantages of numbers, of tactics, of discipline, and inexhaustible resources, the combined despots had secured a faction-in the heart of Poland. And, if that country-can boast of having produced its Washington, it is disgraced also, by giving birth which was to decide the fate of a nation and a

of the rights of man. He had seen, too, that, to hero. Heaven, for wise purposes, permitted that

he free, it was only necessary that a nation should will it; and to be happy, it was only necessary that a nation should be free. And was it not possible to procure these blessings for Poland! for Poland, the country of his birth, which had a claim to all his efforts, to all his services?

it should be the last of Polish liberty. It was decided, indeed, before the battle commenced. The traitor, Poniski, who covered, with a detachment, the advance of the Polish army, abandoned his position to the enemy, and retreated.

That unhappy nation-groaned under a complication of evils, which has scarcely a parallel in history. The mass of people were the abject slaves of the nobles; the nobles, torn into factions, were alternately the instruments, and the victims, of their powerful and ambitious neighbors. By intrigue, corruption, and force, some of its fairest provinces had been separated from the republic, and the people, like beasts, transferred to foreign despots, who were again watching for a favorable moment-for a second dismemberment. To regenerate a people-thus debased, to obtain for a country-thus circumstanced, the blessings of lib-nally-lost-to their view.

The disposition of his army would have done Kosciusko-was astonished, but not dismayed. honor to Hannibal. The succeeding conflict was terrible. When the talents of the general-could no longer direct the mingled mass of combatants, the arm of the warrior was brought to the aid of his soldiers. He performed prodigies of valor. The fabled prowess of Ajax, in defending the Grecian ships-was realized by the Polish hero. Nor was he badly seconded by his troops. As long as his voice could guide, or his example fire their valor, they were irresistible. In this unequal contest-Kosciusko-was long seen, and fi

"Hope for a season, bade the world-farewell, And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell."

He fell, covered with wounds, but still survived. A Cossack would have pierced his breast, when an officer interposed. "Suffer him to execute his purpose," said the bleeding hero; "I am the devoted soldier of my country, and will not survive its liberties." The name of Kosciusko-struck to the heart of the Tartar, like that of Mariusupon the Cimbrian warrior. The uplifted weapon-dropped-from his hand.

Kosciusko-was conveyed to the dungeons of Petersburgh; and, to the eternal disgrace of the Empress Catharine, she made him the object of her vengeance, when he could no longer be the object of her fears. Her more generous son-restored him to liberty. The remainder of his lifehas been spent in virtuous retirement. Whilst in this situation, in France, an anecdote is related of him, which strongly illustrates the command, which his virtues and his services had obtainedover the minds of his countrymen.

In the late invasion of France, some Polish regiments, in the service of Russia, passed through the village in which he lived. Some pillaging of the inhabitants brought Kosciusko from his cottage. "When I was a Polish soldier," said he, addressing the plunderers, "the property of the peaceful citizen was respected." "And who art thou," said an officer, "who addressest us with this tone of authority?" "I am Kosciusko." There was a magic in the word. It ran from corps to corps, from heart to heart. The march was suspended. They gathered round him, and gazed-with astonishment, and awe-upon the mighty ruin-he presented. "Could it, indeed, be their hero," whose fame was identified with that of their country? A thousand interesting reflections burst upon their minds; they remembered his patriotism, his devotion to liberty, his triumphs, and his glorious fall. Their iron hearts were softened, and the tear of sensibility trickled down their weather-beaten faces.

We can easily conceive, sir, what would be the feeling of the hero himself in such a scene. His great heart must have heaved with emotion to find himself once more surrounded by the companions of his glory; and that he would have been upon the point of saying to them,

"Behold your general, come once more
To lead you on to laurel'd victory,
To fame, to freedom."

The delusion could have lasted but for a moment. He was himself, alas! a miserable cripple; and, for them! they were no longer the soldiers of liberty, but the instruments of ambition and tyranny. Overwhelmed with grief at the reflection, he would retire to his cottage, to mourn afresh over the miseries of his country.

Such-was the man, sir, for whose memory I ask from an American congress, a slight tribute of respect. Not, sir, to perpetuate his fame, but our gratitude. His fame-will last as long as liberty-remains upon the earth; as long as a votary-offers incense upon her altar, the name of Kosciusko-will be invoked. And if, by the common consent of the world, a temple shall be erected to those, who have rendered most service to mankind-if the statue of our great countryman, Washington.-shall occupy the place of the "Most Worthy," that of Kosciusco will be found by his side, and the wreath of laurel-will be entwined with the palm of virtue--to adorn his brow.

Oh grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart-lone and desolate
In the wide world, without that only tie
For which it lov'd-to live, or feared to die;
Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken
Since the sad day-its master-chord was broken.

712. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Under a spreading chestnut tree,
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms, Are strong, as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face--is like the tan;

His brow-is wet with honest sweat;
He earns-whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week out, week in, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton, ringing the old kirk chimes,
When the evening sun is low.
And children, coming home from school,

Look in at the open door;
They love to see a flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks, that fly
Like chaff--from a threshing-floor

He goes, on Sunday, to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson-pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing-in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him, like her mother's voice,
Singing-in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard--rough hand he wipes
A tear from out his eyes.
Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing--

Onward--through life he goes:
Each morning-sees some task begin,
Each evening-sees it close;
Something attempted-something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of Life,

Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus, on its sounding anvil shaped,
Each burning deed, and thought.

There's a tear that falls when we part
From a friend whose loss we shall mourn;
There's a tear that flows from the half-brok'n heart,
When we think he may never return-oh, never.
'Tis hard to be parted from those

With whom we forever could dwell,

But bitter, indeed, is the sorrow that flows [ever.
When, perhaps, we are saying farewell-for-
There's a tear that brightens the eye
Of the friend, when absence is o'er!
There's a tear that flows not for sorrow, but joy,
When we meet to be parted no more-oh, never!
Then all that in absence we dread

Is past, and forgotten our pain;

For sweet is the tear we at such moments shed, When we behold the lov'd object again-forever. 713. LAY OF THE MADMAN.

"This is the foul fiend! He begins at curfew, and walks till
the first cock; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and
makes the hare-lip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor
creature of earth. Beware of the foul fiend!"-Shakspeare.
Many a year-hath passed away,
Many a dark, and dismal year,
Since last I roam'd-in the light of day,
Or mingled my own-with another's tear;
Wo to the daughters-and sons of men-
Wo to them all, when I roam again!
Here have I watch'd, in this dungeon cell,
Longer than Memory's tongue can tell;
Here have I shriek'd, in my wild despair,
When the damned fiends, from their prison came,
Sported and gambol'd, and mock'd me here,
With their eyes of fire, and their tongues of flame;
Shouting forever, and aye-my name!
And I strove in vain-to burst my chain,
And longed to be free, as the winds, again,
That I might spring-in the wizard ring,
And scatter them back to their hellish den!
Wo to the daughters-and sons of men-
Wo to them all, when I roam again!

How long-I have been in this dungeon here,
Little I know, and, nothing I care;
What to me is the day, or night,
Summer's heat, or autumn sere,
Spring-tide flowers, or winter's blight,
Pleasure's smile, or sorrow's tear?
Time! what care I for thy flight,
Joy! I spurn thee-with disdain;
Nothing love I-but this clanking chain;
Once I broke from its iron hold,
Nothing I said, but silent, and bold,
Like the shepherd, that watches his gentle fold,
Like the tiger, that crouches in mountain lair,
Hours upon hours, so watch'd I here;

Till one of the fiends, that had come to bring
Herbs from the valley-and drink from the spring,
Stalk'd through my dungeon entrance in!
Ha! how he shriek'd-to see me free-
Ho! how he trembled, and knelt to me,
He, who had mock'd me, many a day,
And barred me out from its cheerful ray,
Gods! how I shouted to see him pray!
I wreath'd my hand-in the demon's hair,
And chok'd his breath-in its mutter'd prayer,
And dane'd I then, in wild delight,
To see the trembling wretch's-fright.

Gods! how I crush'd-his hated bones!

'Gainst the jagged wall, and the dungeon-stones;
And plung'd my arm-adown his throat,
And dragg'd to life-his beating heart,

And held it up, that I might gloat,
To see its quivering fibres start!
Ho! how I drank-of the purple flood,
Quaff'd-and quaff'd again, of blood,
Till my brain grew dark, and I knew no more,
Till I found myself on this dungeon floor,
Fetter'd, and held, by this iron chain;

Ho! when I break its links again,
Ha! when I break its links again,
Wo to the daughters and sons of men!
My frame is shrunk, and my soul is sad,
And devils mock, and call me mad;
Many a dark-and fearful sight
Haunts me here, in the gloom of night;
Mortal smile, or human tear
Never cheers, or soothes me here;
The spider shrinks from my grasp away,
Though he's known my form-for many a day;
The slimy toad, with his diamond eye,
Watches afar, but comes not nigh;
The craven rat, with her filthy brood,
Pilfers and gnaws-my scanty food:
But when I strive to make her play,
Snaps at my hands, and flees away;
Light of day-or ray of sun,
Friend, or hope, I've none-I've none!

Yet 'tis not always thus; sweet slumber steals
Across my haggard mind, my weary sight;
No more my brain-the iron pressure feels,
Nor damned devils-howl the live-long night,

Visions of hope, and beauty-seem
To mingle-with my darker dream;
They bear me back-to a long-lost day,
To the hours and joys of my boyhood's play,
To the merry green, and the sportive scene,
And the valley, the verdant hills between;
And a lovely form, with a bright blue eye,
Flutters-my dazzled vision by;
A tear starts up to my wither'd eye,
Gods! how I love to feel that tear-

Trickle my haggard visage o'er!
The fountain of hope is not yet dry!
I feel, as I felt in days of yore,
When I roam'd at large, in my native glen,
Honor'd and lov'd-by the sons of men,
Till, madden'd to find my home defil'd,
I grasp'd the knife, in my frenzy wild,
And plunged the blade-in my sleeping child!

They called me mad-they left me here,
To my burning thoughts, and the fiend's despair,
Never, ah! never to see again
Earth, or sky, or sea, or plain;
Never to hear soft Pity's sigh-
Never to gaze-on mortal eye;
Doom'd-through life, if life it be,
To helpless, hopeless misery;
Oh, if a single ray of light

Had pierced the gloom of this endless night;
If the cheerful tones of a single voice
Had made the depths of my heart rejoice;
If a single thing had loved me here.
I ne'er had crouch'd to these fiends' despair!

They come again! They tear my brain!
They tumble, and dart through my every vein!
Ho! could I burst this clanking chain,
Then might I spring-in the hellish ring,
And scatter them back to their den again!

*

*

*

*

*

They seize my heart!-they choke my breath! Death!-death! ah, welcome death!-R. M. С.

It is a very poor, though common, pretence to merit, to make it appear by the faults of other men: a mean wit, or beauty, may pass in a room, where the rest of the company are allowed to have none: it is something to sparkle among diamonds; but to shine among pebbles, is neither credit nor value worth the pretending.

BEST CURE FOR TROUBLE.

Ben Brisk-a philosopher was,

In the genuine sense of the word;

And he held, that repining, whatever the cause,
Was unmanly, and weak, and absurd.

When Mat Mope-was assaulted by Trouble,
Though in morals-as pure as a vestal,
He sigh'd, and exclaimed, "Life's a Bubble,
Then blew it away with a pistol!

Tom Tipple, when trouble intruded,
And his fortune, and credit were sunk,
By a too common error deluded,
Drown'd Trouble, and made himself drunk

But Ben--had a way of his own,

When grievances--made him uneasy;
He bade the blue devils begone,
Braved Trouble, and made himself busy.

When sorrow embitters our days,

And poisons each source of enjoyment;

The surest specific, he says,

For Trouble, and Grief is-Employment.

« ÀÌÀü°è¼Ó »