651. MODERN REPUBLICS. Where are the republics of modern times, which cluster'd round immortal Italy? Venice, and Genoa exist, but in name. The Alps, indeed, look down upon the brave and peaceful Swiss, in their native fastnesses; but the guaranty of their freedom is in their weakness, and not in their strength. The mountains are not easily crossed, and the valleys are not easily retained. When the invader comes, he moves like an avalanche, carrying destruction in his path. The peasantry sink before him. The country is too poor for plunder; and too rough for valuable conquest. Nature presents her eternal barriers, on every side, to check the wantonness of ambition; and Switzerland remains, with her simple institutions, a military road to fairer climates, scarcely worth a permanent possession. We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last experiment of self-government by the people. We have begun it, under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. We are in the vigor of youth. Our growth has never been checked, by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been enfeebled by the vices, or luxuries of the old world. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning; simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government, and self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us, and any formidable foe. Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many products, and many means of independence. The government is mild. The press is free. Knowledge reaches, or may reach, every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented? What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary, than for the people to preserve, what they themselves have created? Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France, and the lowlands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of Germany, and the North, and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days. Can it be, that America, under such circumstances, can betray herself? that she is to be added to the catalogue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins ís-"They were, but they are not." Forbid it, my countrymen; forbid it, Heaven!-Story. 652. RAZOR SELLER. A fellow, in a market-town, Most musical, cried razors, up and down, And offered twelve-for eighteen-pence; Wh, certainly, seem'd wondrous cheap, And, for the money, quite a heap, That every man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard; Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush, stuck beneath his nose. With cheerfulness, the eighteen-pence he paid, And, proudly, to himself, in whispers saidThis rascal stole the razors, I suppose. "No matter, if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave; It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune went, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. "Twas a vile razor!-then the rest he tried; All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed, "I wish my eighteen-pence was in my purse." In vain, to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut and dug, and whined, and stamp'd, and swore; Bro't blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd and made wry "Razors! a vile, confounded dog!- Hodge sought the fellow-found him-and begun, "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue! to you, 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives. You rascal! for an hour, have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors, just like oyster-knives. Sirrah! I tell you, you 're a knave, No «What were they made for then, you dog?” he cries. And voice, not much unlike an Indian yell, "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile, " to sell." 653. UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION. I speak-in the spirit-of the British law, which makes liberty- commensurate with, and inseparable from, the British soil,-which proclaims, even to the stranger and the sojourner, the moment he sets his foot upon British earth, that the ground on which he treads-is holy, and consecrated-by the genius of UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION. matter in what language-his doom may have been pronounced; no matter what complexion-incompatible with freedom, an Indian, or an African sun may have burnt upon him; no matter in what disastrous battle-his liberty may have been cloven down; no matter with what solemnities-he may have been devoted-upon the altar of slavery; the first moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar, and the god, sink together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in her own majesty; his body swells beyond the measure of his chains, that burst from around him, disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION.-Grattan. When breezes are soft, and skies are fair, I steal an hour from study and care, And hie me away-to the woodland scene, Where wanders the stream with waters of green; As if the bright fringe-of herbs on its brink Had given their stain, to the wave they drink. 654. GINEVRA; OR LOST BRIDE. If ever you should come to Modena, Stop at a palace, near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in, of old, by one of the Donati. Its noble gardens, terrace, above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you--but before you go, Enter the house-forget it not, I pray youAnd look awhile upon a picture there 'Tis of a lady, in her earliest youth, The last, of that illustrious family; Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not. He, who observes it-ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes, and comes again, That he may call it up, when far away. She sits, inclining forward, as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said, "Beware!" her vest of gold, Broidered with flowers, and clasp'd from head to An emerald stone, in every golden clasp; [foot, And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, Alone it hangs, Her pranks, the favorite theme of every tongue. Weary of his life, That mouldering chest was noticed; and, 'twas There, then, had she found a grave! THE NEEDLE. The gay belles of fashion, may boast of excelling, A witchery, certain the heart to subdue, And plying the needle-with exquisite art; The bright little needle,-the long darning needle, The swift knitting needle, the needle, directed by BEAUTY and ART.-- Woodworth. In parts superior, what advantage lies? Tell, (for you can) what is it to be wise? 'Tis but to know how little can be known; To see all others' faults, and feel our own; Condemn'd in business, or in arts to drudge, Without a second, or without a judge. Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land; All fear, none aid you, and few-understand. Even from the body's purity, the mind Receives a secret sympathetic aid. Not rural sight alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirits. 655. ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. They have gone to the companions of their cares, of their foils. It is well with them. The treasures of America are now in Heaven. How long the list of our good, and wise, and brave, assembled there! how few remain with us! There is our Washington; and those who followed him in their country's confidence, are now met together with him, and all that illustrious company. The faithful marble may preserve their image; the engraven brass may proclaim their worth; but the humblest sod of independent America, with nothing but the dewdrops of the morning to gild it, is a prouder mausoleum than kings or conquerors can boast. The country is their monument. Its independence is their epitaph. But not to their country is their praise limited. The whole earth is the monument of illustrious men. Wherever an agonizing people shall perish, in a generous convulsion, for want of a valiant arm and a fearless heart, they will cry, in the last accents of despair, Oh, for a Washington, an Adams, a Jefferson! Wherever a regenerated nation, starting up in its might, shall burst the links of steel that enchain it, the praise of our fathers shall be the prelude of their triumphal song. The contemporary and successive generations of men will disappear. In the long lapse of ages, the tribes of America, like those of Greece and Rome, may pass away. The fabric of American freedom, like all things human, however firm and fair, may crumble into dust. But the cause in which these our fathers shone is immortal. They did that, to which no age, no people of reasoning men, can be indifferent. Their eulogy will be uttered in other languages, when those we speak, like us who speak them, shall all be forgotten. And when the great account of humanity shall be closed at the throne of God, in the bright list of his children, who best adorned and served it, shall be found the names of our Adams and our Jefferson.-Everett. Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken, Land of my forefathers, ERIN GO BRAGH! He was a man, [tion, Who stole the livery of the court of heaven, 656. EXILE OF ERIN. A home, and a country-remain not for me; [ing, 'Too grave, his prayers too long, his charities, 658. PARRHASIUS AND CAPTIVE. "Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst those Olynthian captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man; and when he had him at his house, put him to death with Glazes apace. He does not feel you now- But for one moment-one-till I eclipse extreme torture and torment, the better, by his example, to express Conception with the scorn of those calm lips! the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then There stood unsold captive in the mart, My hands feel skillful, and the shadows lift Upon the bended heavens-around me play Ha! bind him on his back! Quick or he faints! stand with the cordial near! Press down the poison'd links into his flesh! Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! I pity the dumb victim at the altar-- A thousand lives were perishing in thine- Yet there's a deathless name! A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, Ay-though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst- The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot- O heavens-but I appal Your heart, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives Vain-vain-give o'er! His eye Shivering! Hark! he mutters Brokenly now--that was a difficult breath- Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! O, if earth be all, and Heaven nothing, Of which we never heard before. A matter which our thoughts run much on, Teach us the marks-of love's beginning, [filled 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, what 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 hopeIs 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, Awaked, 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, POMPEII. HOW serenely slept the star-light on that lovely city! how breathlessly 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, unheeded, over its head; and now the last ray quivered on the dial plate of its doom! [door; 660. THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. 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 hoary 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 my road; For plenty there | a residence has found, And grandeur | a magnificent abode. Hard is the fate of the infirm, and poor! 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. Oh! 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; Lur'd by a villain | from her native home, And left the world | to wretchedness and me. |