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“ 'T was gold instructed coward hearts
“ In treachery's more pernicious arts.
“ Who can recount the mischiefs o'er ?
“ Virtue resides on earth no more !"
He spoke, and sighed. In angry mood,
Plutus, his god, before him stood.
The miser trembling, locked his chest;
The vision frowned, and thus addrest :

“ Whence is this vile ungrateful rant? “Each sordid rascal's daily cant. “ Did I, base wretch, corrupt mankind ? “The fault's in thy rapacious mind. “ Because my blessings are abused, “Must I be censured, cursed, accused ? “Even virtue's self by knaves is made A cloak to carry on the trade; “And power (when lodged in their possession) “Grows tyranny, and rank oppression. “ Thus, when the villain crams his chest, " Gold is the canker of the breast; “ 'Tis avarice, insolence, and pride, " And every shocking vice beside, " But when to virtuous hands 'tis given, “ It blesses, like the dews of heaven : “ Like heaven, it hears the orphans cries, “ And wipes the tears from widows eyes : “ Their crimes on gold shall misers lay, “ Who pawned their sordid souls for pay? “Let bravoes then (when blood is spilt) “ Upbraid the passive sword with guilt.”

THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE.

There's a white stone placed upon yonder tomb,

Beneath is a soldier lying, The death-wound came amid sword and plume,

When banner and ball were flying.

Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast,

By wet wild flowers surrounded ; The church shadow falls o'er his place of rest,

Where the steps of his childhood bounded.

There were tears that fell from manly eyes,

There was woman's gentler weeping, And the wailing of age and infant cries,

O'er the grave where he lies sleeping.

He had left his home in his spirit's pride,

With his father's sword and blessing; He stood with the valiant side by side,

His country's wrongs redressing.

He came again, in the light of his fame,

When the red campaign was over;
One heart that in secret had kept his name,

Was claimed by the soldier lover.

But the cloud of strife came upon the sky;

He left his sweet home for battle ; And his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry,

And the cannon's long death-rattle.

He came again, but an altered man:

The path of the grave was before him, And the smile that he wore was cold and wan,

For the shadow of death hung o'er him.

He spoke of victory,-spoke of cheer :

These are words that are vainly spoken To the childless mother or orphan's ear,

Or the widow whose heart is broken.

. A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone,

Half hidden by yonder willow; There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won,

But, who died on his own home-pillow !

THE YOUTH AND THE PHILOSOPHER,

A Grecian Youth, of talents rare,
Whom Plato's philosophic care
Had formed for Virtue's nobler view,
By precept and example too,
Would often boast his matchless skill,
To curb the steed, and guide the wheel;
And as he passed the gazing throng,
With graceful ease, and smacked the thong,
The idiot wonder they expressed,
Was praise and transport to his breast.

At length, quite vain, he needs must show
His master what his art could do :
And bade his slaves the chariot lead
To Academus' sacred shade.
The trembling grove confessed its fright,
'The wood-nymphs started at the sight,
The Muses dropt the learned lyre,
And to their inmost shades retire !

Howe'er, the youth with forward air
Bows to the sage, and mounts the car;
The lash resounds, the coursers spring,
The chariot marks the rolling ring ;
And gathering crowds, with eager eyes,
And shouts, pursue him as he flies.

Triumphant to the goal returned,
With nobler thirst his bosom burned ;
And now along the indented plain,
The self-same track he marks again ;
Pursues with care the nice design,
Nor ever deviates from the line.

Amazement seized the circling crowd,
The youths with emulation glowed ;
Even bearded sages hailed the boy,
And all, but Plato, gazed with joy ;
For he, deep-judging sage, beheld
With pain the triumphs of the field;

And when the charioteer drew nigh,
And, flushed with hope, had caught his eye,
“ Alas! unhappy youth !” he cried,
“ Expect no praise from me,” and sighed;
“ With indignation I survey
“ Such skill and judgment thrown away;
" The time profusely squandered there
« On vulgar arts beneath thy care,
“ If well employed, at less expense
“ Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense ;
" And raised thee from a coachman's fate,
To govern men, and guide the state.”

MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.
Who is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes

Seem a heart overcharged to express ?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, but her silence implies

The composure of settled distress.
No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek,

Cold and hunger awake not her care ;
Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor withered bosom, half bare, and her cheek

Has the deadly pale hue of despair.
Yet cheerful and happy (nor distant the day,)

Poor Mary the maniac hath been ;
The traveller remembers, who journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight,

As she welcomed them in with a smile;
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night,

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,

And she hoped to be happy for life;
But Richard was idle and worthless; and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say,

That she was too good for his wife. 'Twas in Autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,

And fast were the windows and door;
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,
And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,

They listened to hear the wind roar. so 'Tis pleasant,” cried one, “ seated by the fire-side,

"To hear the wind whistle without." “ A fine night for the Abbey !” his comrade replied ; “ Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried,

“ Who should wander the ruins about. “ I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear

“ The hoarse ivy shake over my head; “ And could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear, “ Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear,

“For this wind might awaken the dead.” “ I'll wager a dinner,” the other one cried,

" That Mary would venture there now." “ Then wager, and lose,” with a sneer he replied, “ I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,

" And faint if she saw a white cow.”

“ Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?”

His companion exclaimed with a smile; “ I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, “And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough

“ From the elder that grows in the aisle.”

With fearless good humour did Mary comply,

And her way to the Abbey she bent;
The night it was gloomy, the wind it was high ;
And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,

She shivered with cold as she went.

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