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For idle hopes, or useless musings given:

Who dreams away his powers,

The reckless slumberer shall not wake to heaven!


A few weeks since a mendicant appeared in our village, pale and emaciated and convulsed with spasmodic affection, brought on to all appearance, by an irritation of wounds received in the battles of our independence. The many and deep scars with which his scull and breast and arms were disfigured, evinced that the tragedy of our revolution had been to him no bloodless drama. He asked not for the means to pamper appetite. His face bespoke him an honest and a temperate man. He begged only, for humanity's sake, a pittance to support nature till he could reach his few surviving friends further north. It was an affecting sight to see an old man-a veteran of that sacred war, (in which he had lost three sons) begging an alms to aid him on to the spot, where, in the wretched hovel which he could call his own, he might put up his last prayer for his ungrateful country, cover his face with his tattered mantle and die.-Vermont American.

AND thou hast seen, thou sayst, old man,

The Lion in his ire,

When from his strained and blood shot eye,
Flashed out vindictive fire.

And thou hast heard, old man, thou sayst,

The terror of his roar,

That echoed 'mid our mountain rocks,

And rang along our shore.


And thou hast stood unblenchingly
His grisly front before-

When carnage waved her dripping wing,
And drenched the earth with gore.

God help thee, father, for the world,
Is pitiless and cold—

It sheltereth not the shelterless,
Revereth not the old.

Ay, it can gaze upon the front
That battle's stamp hath sealed;
And leave unfilled the withered hand,
Too weak its blade to wield.

Why left they not thy weltering corse

On Bunker's smoking steep


When through thy brow the death-shot ploughed That furrow broad and deep?

Or why on Yorktown's crimson plain

Didst thou not yield thy breath?

Far better had that bloody sleep,
Been the long sleep of death!

Then hadst thou bled as Warren bled,
And like Montgomery died—
Thy name were chronicled among
The heroes of our pride.



God give thee, father, words to beg-
Choking with share-thy food:
Those scars proclaim thy country's weal-
Those rags, her gratitude!



He sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame;
He has no feeling of the glory gone;
He has no eye to catch the mounting flame,

That once in transport drew his spirit on;
He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor cares
Who the wreathed laurel bears.

And yet not all forgotten sleeps he there;
There are who still remember how he bore
Upward his daring pinions, till the air

Seemed living with the crown of light he wore;
There are who, now his early sun has set,
Nor can, nor will forget.

He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye
And the pressed lip, a darkened glory plays;
Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie,

There hovers still the light of other days;
Deep in that soul a spirit, not of earth,
Still struggles for its birth.


He will not sleep forever, but will rise

Fresh to more daring labors; now, even now, As the close shrouding mist of morning flies, The gathered slumber leaves his lifted brow; From his half-opened eye, in fuller beams, His wakened spirit streams.

Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone';
The deadly charm departed; see him fling
Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on,

Keen as the famished eagle darts her wing;
The goal is still before him, and the prize
Still woos his eager eyes.

He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take-
They, who, with feebler pace, still kept their



When he forgot the contest-shall they take,
Now he renews the race, the victor's bay;
Still let them strive-when he collects his might,
He will assert his right.

The spirit cannot always sleep in dust,
Whose essence is ethereal; they may try
To darken and degrade it; it may rust

Dimly awhile, but cannot wholly die;
And, when it wakens, it will send its fire
Intenser forth and higher.






SLUMBER'S heavy chain hath bound thee—

Where is now thy fire?

Feebler wings are gathering round thee—

Shall they hover higher?

Can no power, no spell, recall thee
From inglorious dreams?

O, could glory so appal thee,

With his burning beams!

Thine was once the highest pinion

In the midway air;

With a proud and sure dominion,

Thou didst upward bear.

Like the herald, winged with lightning,

From the Olympian throne,
Ever mounting, ever brightening,

Thou wert there alone.

Where the pillared props of heaven

Glitter with eternal snows,
Where no darkling clouds are driven,
Where no fountain flows-

Far above the rolling thunder,
When the surging storm

Rent its sulphury folds asunder,
We beheld thy form.

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