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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, that revenge?-The towers of heaven are
With armed watch, that render all access
Impregnable: oft, on the bordering deep,
Encamp their legions: 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,
Sit, unpolluted; and the etherial mold,
Incapable of stain, would soon expel
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
Victorious. Thus repulsed, 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,
Devoid of sense, and motion?--And who knows
(Let this be good) whether our angry foe
Can give it, or will ever? How he can,
Is doubtful; that he never will, is sure.
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire,
Belike through impotence, or unawares,
To give his enemies their wish, and end
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves
To punish endless?" Wherefore cease ye then?"
Say they, who counsel war; we are decreed,
Reserved, and destined-to eternal wo:
Whatever doing,-what can we suffer more,
What can we suffer worse?" Is this then worst,
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms?
What, when we fled amain, pursued and struck
With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought
The deep to shelter us? this hell, then, seemed
A refuge from those wounds! or, when we lay,
Chained on the burning lake? that sure was worse.
What if the breath, that kindled those grim fires,
A waked, should blow them into seven-fold rage,
And plunge us in the flames? or, from above,
Should intermitted vengeance-arm again
His red right hand to plague us? what if all
Her stores were opened, and this firmament
Of hell-should spout her cataracts of fire,
Impending horrors, threatening hideous fall,
One day upon our heads; while we, perhaps,
Designing, or exhorting glorious war,
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled,
Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey
Of racking whirlwinds; or, for ever sunk
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapped in chains;
There to converse-with everlasting groans,

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

POMPEII. How serenely slept the star-light on that lovely city! how breathles.dy its pillared 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 Age after age had rolled indestructive, unlceded, over its head; and now the last ray quivered on the dial plate of its doom!

[door;

660. THE BEGGAR'S PETIT. N.
Pity the sorrows | of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs | 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 houry 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 iny road;
For plenty there | a residence has found,

Hard is the fate of the infirm, and poor!
And grandeur | a magnificent abode.

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 shed,

O 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 withhold 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 misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot;

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

Is cast, abandon'd, on the world's wide stage,
Lur'd by a villain | from her native home.
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care!
Struck with sad anguish | at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell. a victim to despai⚫;

And left the world | to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows | of a poor old man, [door;
Whose trembling limbs | have born him to your
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store.
Canst thou administer-to a mind diseased?
Fluck-from the memory-a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles-of the brain:
And with some sweet-oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom-of that perilots stuf
Which weighs upon the heart?

276

661. CATO'S SENATE.
Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in coun-
Cesar's approach has summon'd us together, [cil.
And Rome attends her fate from our resolves.
How shall we treat t is bold aspiring man?
Success still follows him, and backs his crimes.
Pharsalia-gave him Rome: Egypt-has since
Received his yoke, and the whole Nile is Cesar's.
Why shou d I mention Juba's overthrow,
And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands.
Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should
decree

What course to take. Our foe advances on us,
And envies us, even Libya's sultry deserts.
Fathers, pronounce your thoughts: are they still
(fixed
To hold it out, and fight it to the last?
Or, are your hear s subdued at length, and wro't,
By tine and il success, to a submission ?
Sempronius, speak.

Sempronius.

My voice is still for war.
Gods can a Roman senate long debate,
Which of the two to choose, slavery, or death?
No; let us rise at once, gird on our swords,
And, at the head of our remaining troops,
Attack the foe, break through the thick array
Of his thronged legions, and charge kome upon
Perhaps some arm more lucky than the rest, [him.
May reach his heart, and free the word-from
bondage.

Rise, fathers, rise! 't's Rome demands your help;
Rise, and evenge her slaughtered ci izens,
Or share their fue! The corpse of half her senate
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we
Bit here, deliberating in cold debates,
If we should sacri ace our lives to honer,
Or wear them out in servitude, and chains.
Rouse w, for shame! our brothers of Pharsalia
Point at their wounds, and cry alond-To battle!
Great Pompey's shade-complains that we are
[us:
And Scipio's ghost-walks unrevenged, amongst

slow.

Cato. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal-
Transport thee thus, beyond the bounds of rea-
[son:
Tue fortitude is seen great exploits,
That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides:
All else is towering frenzy and distraction.
Are not the lives of those, who draw the sword,
In Rome's defence, intruste to our care?

Should we this lead them to a field of slaughter,
Might not the mpartial world, with reason, say,
Welavish dat our deaths, the 1 lood of thousands,
To grace our fill, and make our ruin glorious;
Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.
Lucius. My thoughts, I must confess, are
turned on peace.
Already, hove our quarrels filled the world-
With widows and with orphans: Scythia mourns
Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions-
Lie half inpeopled, by the feuds of Rome: [kind.
'Tis time to sheathe the sword and spare inan-
It is not Cesar but the gods, my athers,
The gods declare against us and rejel

Our vain at empts. To urge the foe to battle,
(Prompted by blind revenge, and wild despair,)
Were to refuse the awards of Provi 'ence,
And it to rest in Heaven s determination.
Already have we shown our love to Rome;
Now, let us how submission to the gods.
We took up rms, not to revenge ourselves,
But free the Commonwealth; when this end fails,
Aring have 10 further use: our country's cause,
That drew o ir swor's, now wrests' m from our
And bids us at delight in Roman blood, [hands,
Unprofitably shed: what men could do-
1s done already: hearen and earth- will witness,
If--Rome--must-fall. that ce are nnocent.
Semp. This smooth discourse, and mild behav-
Conceal a raitor--something whispers me [ior oft
All is not right-Cato beware of Lucius

Cato. Let us appear-por rash, nor diffident:
swells into a fant;
Immoderate valor

And fear, admitted into public councils,

Betrays-like treason. Let us shun 'em both.
Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs round us;
Within our walls, are troops--inured to tod.
Are grown thus desperate: we have bulwarks
In Afric's heats, and seasoned to the sun;
Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us,
Ready to rise, at its young prince's call.
While there is hope, do not distrust the gods;
But wait, at least, till Cesar's near approach
"Twill never be too late
Force us to yield.

To sue for chains, and own a conqueror.
Why should Rome fall a moment, ere her time?
No, let us draw her term of freedom cut,
In its full length, and spin it to the last.
So, shall we gain still one day's liberty;
And let me prish but, in Cato's judgment,
A day, an HOUR, of virtuous liberty,
Is worth a whole eternity--in bondage.-Addison.
662. GoD IN NATURE.-There is religion
in every thing around us-a calm and holy
religion, in the unbreathing things of nature,
which man would do well to im tate. It is a
meek and blessed influence, stealing in as it
were. unawares upon the heart. It comes
quietly, and without excitement. It has no
terror, no gloom in its approaches. It does
not rouse up the passions; it is untrammeled
by the creeds, and unshadowed by the super-
stitions of man. It is fresh from the hands of
its author, glowing from the immediate pres-
ence of the Great Spirit, which pervades and
quickens it.

It is written on the arched sky. It looks out from every star. It is on the sailing cloud, and in the invisible wind. It is among the hills and valleys of the earth-where the shru'less mountain-top-pierces the thin atmosphere of eternal winter-or where the mighty forest fluctuates, before the strong wind, with its dark waves of green foliage. It is spread out like a legible language, upon the broad face of the unsleeping ocean. It is the poetry of nature. It is this which uplifts the spirit within us, until it is strong enough to overlook the shadows of our place of probation; which breaks, link after link, the chain that binds us to materiality; and which opens to our imagination a world of spiritual beauty and holiness.

PLAY-PLACE OF EARLY DAYS.
Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise,
We love the play-place of our early days;
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone,
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
The wall on which we tried our graving skill,
The very name we carv'd subsisting still;
The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd,
Though mangled, hacked, and bewed, not yet
destroyed:

The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot,
Playing our games, and on the very spot;
As happy as we on e, to kneel an! dray
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw;
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,
Or drive it devious with a dextrous pat;
The pleasing spectacle at once excites
Such recollection of our own delights,
That, viewing it, we seem almost t' obtain
Our innocent, sweet, simple years again. Cowper
Come sleep. O sleep, the certain knot of peace
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of wo;
The poor man's wea'th, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low.

insult; our supplications have een disregarded and we have been sparnel, with contempt from the loot of the throne, In va n. atter these things may we indulge the fond Lope of eace, and reconThere is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free; if we mena to preserve. in

663. PATRICK HENRY'S SPEECH. 1775. No man-thanks more highly than I do. of the patriotism, as well as the abilities. of the very, worthy gentlemen, who have just addressed the house. But. diferent men-olien see the same subject in different Eghts: an I therefore. I lose at will not be thought disrespectful to those gentlemen.triolate, those mest mable privileges, for which we if ent rta ning as I do opinions of a character; very opposite to the rs. I shoud speak forth my sentiments-ferly and without reserve. Thus, sir. is no time for ceremony. The ques on before the house s one of awful monent to this country. For my part. I consider tas nothing less than a question o freedom. or slavery: antan proportion to the magnitude of the subject, ought to be the freedom of debate. It is only in this way we can hope to arrive at truth, and fulfill the great respons bl ty which we hold to God and to our country. Were I to withhold my sent men's at such a me as this, through fear of giving offence. I should cons der myself as gu ́ity of treason toward my country, and of an act of disloyalty toward the Majesty of Heaven, whom I revere above all earthly kings. It is natural for man-to indulge in the l'us ous of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and i sten-to the song of that syren. u', she transforms us—into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for LIBERTY? Are e disposed to be of the number of those, who huring eyes see not, and karing ears, hear not the things, which so nearly concern their temporal salvai on? For my part, whatever angu sh of spirit may cost. I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it.

have been so long contending; at we mean not basely to abandon the no le struggle, in which we have been so long engaged, and wich wo have pledged ourselves, never to at anden, until the glorious of jeet of our contest shali ie o. tainedwe must fight! I repeat it!-s r. we must FIGHT! An appeal to arms, and to the Gop of hosts, is all that is left us. They tell us. s.r, that we are weak, txable to cope--with so form dable an adversary But then-shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be--when we are totally disarmel, and when a British guard shall Le stationed in every house? Shall we ge ther strength-by irresolution, and inaction? Shalt we acquire the means of effectual resistance, by iying supinely on our backs, and hugging the de Jus ve phantom of hope, unt lour enemies shall have bound us-hand-und foot? Sr. we are not weak. it we make a proper use of those means, which the God of nature hath placed in our power Three millions of people, armed-in the holy cause of LIBERTY, and such a country as that which ice possess, are invincible, by any force, which our enemy can send against us. Besides, s.r. we shall not fight our batiles alone. There is a just God.-who presides over the destinies of nations. and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong-alone; it is to the vigilant. the active, the BRAVE. Bes.des. sr. we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late-to retire from the contest. There is no retreat, but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged. Their clanking-may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inerit able--and let it come!-1 repeat it, sir, let 1 COME.

664. AMERICA.

I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided; and thats the lamp-of EXPERIENCE. I know of no way of julg ng of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past. I wish to know what there has been, in the con tuet of the British m'n stry. for the last ten years. to justify those hopes, with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves, and the house? Is it It is vam. sir, to ertenuate the matter. Gentle that insidious smile, with which our petit on has men may cry--PEACE-PEACE-but there is NO been lately received? Trust 1 not. s r; it will prove peace. The war ́s actually begun! The next & RATE--10 your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be gale, that sweeps from the north will bring to our betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves-how this cars the clash of resound ng arms! Our brethren gracious reception of our pet tron--comports with are already in the field! Why stand we here idle! those warlike preparations, which cover our wa What is it. that gentlemen wish? what would they ters, and darken our land. Are fleets, and armies, have? Is life-so-dear, or peace-so sweet, as to necessary to a work of love, and reconciliation? be purchased-at the price of chains--and slavery? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be re- Forbid it-Almighty God.-I know not - what conciled. that force must be called in to win back | course others may take.--but, as for me, give me our love? Let us not deceive ourselves. sr. These | LIBERTY,-or give me-DEATH!" are the implements of war, and subjugation-the last arguments-10 which kings resort. I ask. Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, gentlemen assign any other, possible motive for it? Above the fair Atlantic! she has taught Has Great Brian ang enemy in this quarter of Her Esau brethren that the haughty flag. the world, to call for all this accumulation of na-The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag. [bought ries. and armies? No sr. she has none. They are meant for us: they can be meant for no other. They are sent over-to bind, and rivet upon us, those chains, which the British min stry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sr, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything here to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in rain. Shall we resort to entreaty, and humble supplication? What terms shall we find, which have not been already exhausted? Let us not. I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir. we have done everything that could be done, to avert the storm. which is now coming on. We have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have IMPLORED its interposition--to arrest the tyrann cal hands of the ministry, and parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances-have produced additional violence and

May strike to those whose red right hands have
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, forever
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river,
That it should flow, and overflow, thah creep
Through thousand lazy channels in our ve us,
Dani'd like the dull canal, with locks and chains,
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,
Three paces, and then faltering-better be
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free,
In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ,
Than stagnate in our marsh.--or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
One treeman more, America, to thee!-Byron.

OF THE DREAD OF REFORM. The true and only reason, for not attempting a reform of the state of things is, that the interest of corruption-requires them to remain as they are.

665. JOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.
When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul that slumbered
To a holy, calm delight-
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlor-wall--
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved-one, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more!

He, the young and strong, who cherished

Noble longings for the strifeBy the road-side fell and perished, Weary with the march of life! They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering boreFolded their pale hands so meeklySpake with us on earth no more! And with them the being beauteous Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noisless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine; And she sits and gazes at me,

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer-
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh! though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

ciple. Instead of sweeping the globe, with
the guilty purpose of oppressing the weak,
robbing the defenceless, exciting the soune
of lamentation in the humble hut, and draw-
ing forth the tears of the widow, and the or-
phan, let us do what is in our power--to pro-
inote the happiness of our fellow men.
the genuine spirit of brotherly affection, let
us smoke the pipe of peace-with the untu-
tored wanderer of the western wilderness→→→
or, partake of bread, and sait, with the hardy
native of the African desert.

In

Mankind often complain, that they are un happy; that they tread in a thorny path, and drink of a bitter stream. But whence do Do they their sufferings, and sorrows flow? not, in a great measure, proceed from their own selfish, and malignant passions! Re move the cause, and the effect will disappear. Banish malice, envy, hatred; let genuine good-will towards each other prevail, and a great portion of human misery -- will fade away, like darkness--before the rising sun. It will dissipate the gloom, which often clouds the countenance, and remove the grief, which often preys upon the heart.-Fergus.

666. THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. All mankind are brethren. Every human being, who comes in our way, and stands in need of our aid, is entitled to our sympathy. Human nature, and distress, form a legitimate claim to our friendly assistance. We are not to withhold our brotherly affection, from any of our fellow men, because an imaginary line, a river, a ridge of mountains, or a channel of the ocean, may have separated their birth-place from ours; because their manners, customs, and political institutions are not the same with our own; because, by reason of difer-I ence of climate, and manner of life, their skin is tinged with a different color; because they offer their tribute of homage-to the Creator in a different manner; or, because there is some difference, or shade of differ. ence, between their religious rites, and opinions, and ours.

The sentiment of universal benevolenceexpands the heart, humanizes the mind, and fosters every generous affection; but jealousy, malace, hatred, and other malignant passions-pervert the soul, and cramp, and vitiate-the best feelings of our nature. They wage war with every manly, and liberal prin

EDUCATION.

If thou hast plucked a flower

Of richest, rarest ray,

And borne it from its garden bower,
Thou knowest 't will fade away:
If thou hast gathered gold,
Unrusted and refined,

That glittering hoard of worth untold
Thou knowest the thief may find.

There is a plant that fears

No adverse season's strife,

But with an inborn fragrance cheers
The wintry eye of life;

There is a wealth that foils

The robber's roving eye,

The guerdon of the mind that toi's
For immortality.

ye,

whose brows are bright,
Whose bosoms feel no thorn,
Seek knowledge, by the rosy light
Of youth's unfolding morn;
With ardor uncontrolled,

Seek wisdom's lore sublime,
And win the garland, and the gold
That cannot change with time.-Sigourney

THE LAND OF REST.

Oh, when-shall I go to that land

Where spirits-beatified dwell?
Oh, when shall I join their bright band.

And bid to this earth-a farewell?

am weary of life-and its care,

I am weary of life and its woe,
Oh, when to that country so fair,

To that country unknown, shall I go?
A soft yellow light fills the air

[ther

Of that land, which I long to behold;
And the faces and forms-of the saints who ar
Are clothed-in its lustre of gold.
Like angels they look-as they move,

And like angels they pass the sweet hours;
For they are not mortals, but spirits, who rove
In the light of those beautiful bowers.

Face to face the truth comes out

667. THE PERFECT ORATOR. Imagine to yourselves-a Demosthenes, addressing the most illustrious assembly in the world, upon a point, whereon the fate of the most illustrius of nations depended. How awful such a meeting! how vast the subject! By the power of his eloquence, the augustness of the assembly is lost-in the dignity of the orator; and the importance of the subject, for a while, superseded by the admiration of his talents. With what strength of argument, with what powers of the fancy, with what emotions of the heart, does he assault, and subjugate, the whole man; and, at once, captivate his reason, his imagination, and his passions! To effect this, inust be the utmost effort of the most improved state of human nature. Not a faculty that he possesses, but is here exerted to its highest pitch. All his internal powers are at work; all his external, testify their energies.

[winds,

669. TIME-NEW YEAR.
"Tis midnight's holy hour; and silence, now,
Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er
The still-and pulseless world. Hark! on the
The bell's deep tones are swelling: 'tis the knell
Of the departed-year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream, and wood,
With melancholy light, the moonbeam's rest,
Like a pale, spotless shroud: the air is stirred,
As by a mourner's sigh; and, on yon cloud,
That floats so still, and placidly, through heaven,

The spirits of the seasons-seem to stand, [form,
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn
And Winter, with his aged locks, and breath,
In mournful cadence, that come abroad,—
Like the far wind-harp's wild, and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge-o'er the dead year--

Gone-from the earth-forever.

Tis a time

Within, the memory, the fancy, the judg ment, the passions, are all busy; without, For memory, and tears. Within the deep, every muscle, every nerve is exerted; not a Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, feature, not a limb, but speaks. The organs Whose tones-are like the wizard's voice of Time, of the body, attuned to the exertions of the Heard from the tomb of ages, points its coldmind, thro' the kindred organs of the hearers, And solemn finger-to the beautiful instantaneously vibrate those energies--from soul to soul. Notwithstanding the diversity And holy visions, that have passed away, of minds, in such a multitude, by the light-And left no shadow of their loveliness, ning of eloquence, they are melted into one mass; the whole assembly, actuated in one and the same way, become, as it were, but one man, and have but one voice. The universal cry is-Let us march against Philip, let us tight for our liberties--let us conquer, or die.

668. WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS.
When the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented,
The list of what fate for each mortal intends,
At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented,
And slipp'd in three Llessings, wife, children, and friends.

In vain surly Pluto declared he was cheated,

And justice divine could not compass her ends,
The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,
For earth becomes heaven with wife, children, and friends.
If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands rested,
The fund, ill-secured, oft in bankruptcy ends,
But the heart issues Lills, which are never protested,
When drawn on the firm of-wife, children, and friends.
The sollier, whose deeds live immortal in story,
When duty to far distant latitudes sends,
With transport would barter whole ages of glory,
For one happy hour with wife, children, and friends.
Though valor sill glows in life's waning embers,
The death-wounded tar, who his colors defends,
Drops a tear of regret, as he dying remembers,

How blest was his home, with wife, children, and friends.
Though the spice-l reathing gale, o'er his caravan hovers,
Though around him Arabia's whole fragrance descends,
The merchant still thinks of the woodbine that covers
The bower where he sat with wife, children, and friends.
The day-spring of youth, still unclouded with sorrow,
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends,

But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow

No warmth from the smiles of wife, children and friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish The laurel that o'er her fair favorites bends, O'er me wave the willow, and bag may it flourish, Bedew'd with the tears of wife, children, and friends Friendship is constant in all other things, Save in the office and affairs of love:

Therefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues. Let every eye negotiate for itself,

And trust no agent: for beauty is a witch, Against whose charins faith melteth into blood.

On the dead waste of life. That spectre-lifts
The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,
And, bending, mournfully, above the pale. [flowers
Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead
O'er what has passed-to nothingness. The year

Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark-is on each brow,
Its shadow-in each heart. In its swift course,
It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful-
And they are not. It laid its palid hand
Upon the strong man-and the haughty form-
Is fallen, and the flashing eye-is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged
The bright and joyous-and the tearful wail--
Of stricken ones-is heard, where erst, the song,
And reckless shout-resounded. It passed o'er
The battle-plain,where sword, and spear.and shield
Flashed-in the light of mid-day-and the strength
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,
Green from the sol of carnage, waves above
The crushed, and mouldering skeleton. It came,
And faded, like a wreath of mist, at eve;
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,
It heralded its millions-to their home-
In the dim land-of dreams.

Looking into the fire is very injurious to the eyes, particularly a coal fire. The stimulus of light and heat united, soon destroys the eyes. Looking at molten iron will soon destroy the sight. Reading in the twilight is injurious to the eyes, as they are obliged to make great exertion. Reading or sewing with a side light, injures the eyes, as both eyes should be exposed to an equal degree of light. The reason is, the sympathy between the eyes is so great, that if the pupil of one is dilated by being kept partially in the shade, the one that is most exposed cannot contract itself sufl'ciently for protection, and will ultimately be injured. Those who wish to preserve their sight, should preserve their general health by correct habits, and give their eyes just work enough, with a due degree of light."

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