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Lorsqua la documont ast trop grand pour Atra raproduit an un saul clichA, 11 ast film* A partir da I'angla aupAriaur gaucha, da gaucha A droita, at da haut an bas, an pranant la nombra d'Imagas n^cassaira. Las diagrammas suivants illustrant la mithoda. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 ♦ 5 6 Fl pv^\f^3fl^^^^ m\ . ■^ F: ^IP;'M. ■i.'.j**' '., ijfl y^'*-i tfi6«C |^/j^4^iM£ja ^-^ '"'**--.— ^4f^ EXAMPLES « SELECTED TO CORRESPOND TO THE PRECEPTS SLET'S ELEMENTS OF LITERATURE. ;?* 1*1 6y A MEMBER OF THE URSULINE COMMUNITY 01 aUEBEC. PRIirflfiD BY a «. 1865^ ?*'-'^ * "\ M EXAMPLES SELECTED TO CORRESPOND TO THE PRECEPTS Of ANSLEY'S ELEMENTS OF LITERATURE. ;i iForpageZl.] %%ilti^. The Evidsnces of Religion. When, from this centre of our religion, I cast my view in any direction, 1 behold an unbounded prospect, independent of any natural or political horizon. Under every climate^ under every variety of government, I can discover myriads who daily recite the same act of faith, and perform the same acts of wryrs*hip as myself; who look up to the same objects and institutions with reverence, and acknow- ledge the supreme Power under whose more immediate authority I now address you. 1 see on every side the missionaries of this religion advancing from day to day, farther into Unconqoered territories, threading the dark fopjsts of the western hemisphere, or disguising themselves in the populous cities of the East; in both directions daily adding new subjects to the Kingdom of the Lord. I see this society, at once coherent and united, though . vast and ever-extending, wherever it becomes known, instantly become also distingui-shed and conspicu6us. Powerful monarchs, whose interests on every other point seem neces- sarily to jar, boast that they only form integrant portions of its vast empire ; men of daring talent and varied learning, who are eager on every other subject to frame new systems, 4^ vL* mmtm .^^ ^ or to distinguish themselves irorn others by the originality of their views, are docile as children to its doctrine, and fearful of differing in the least from the belief of the most ignorant of the faithful ; bold and aspiring characters, nay, whole populations, jealous of their liberties, and impatient of almost the mildest resiraint, bow to its yoke with cheerfulness, and glory in obedience to its commands ; and even where it exists in a more depressed and humble state, it is still the object of universal attention and curiosity, from the splen> dour of its worship, the uniformity of its doctrines, and the constant increase of its members. And if, instead of directing my looks abroad for these characterising marks, I cast an eye upon the ground whereon I stand, I find still more speaking evidence of their existence here, Avith the addiiicmal quality which alone is wanting to designate fully the Kingdom of Christ, all that demonstra- tion of an imperishable construction which centuries of dura- tion can afford. For when I follow back, through every tge, the ecclesiastical momuments which surround me, and find that they conduct me to the very foundation of the Christian Church ; when I see myself kneeling before the very altars which a Sylvester anointed, and where a Constantino adored ; above all, when standing in the subliniest tennple which the hands, or even the imagination of man ever raised to his Creator, I behold msyelf placed, at once, between the shrine of the Prince of the Apostles, and the throne of his successor, in a direct lineal descent, and can thence trace with my eye, almost every link which unite» these two ex: remes, through the arches that repose beneath the tombs and altars that sur- round me ; 0, will any one ask me, why I cling, with a feel- ing of prido and of affection, to the relisrion which alone carries me back to the infancy of Christianity, and unites, in unbroken connection, through ages of fulfilment and pro- phecy, the creed which I profess, with the inspired visions of the earlier dispensation. Dr. Wiseman, Coi ral uf law, nndei engaj could equal creat '^ndei imag heart kind from prodi flowe I these tome appe new their he iFc ;ina)ity of nd fearful It ignorant ay, whole of almost linens, and where it still the the aplen- and the for these id whereon ir existence wanting to demonstra- ries of dura- I every tge, le, and find hie Christian very aliars ine adored ; le which the iised to his n the shrine is BuecRSsori vith my eye, tnes, through Itars that sur- , with a feel- which alone md unites, in jnt and pro- pired visions 2mi Example.— Thk Bkauties of thb Psalms. Composed upon particular occasions, yet designed for gene- ral use ; delivered out as services for the Israelites under the law, yet no less aJapted to the circumstances of Christians under the Gospel ; they present religion to us in the most engaging dress ; communicating truths which philosophy could never investigate ; in a style which poetry can never equal ; while history is made the vehiclo nf prophecy, and creation lends all its charms to paint the glories of redemp- Vtion^Calculated alike to profit and to please, they inform the ^Understanding, elevate the affections, and entertain the imagination. Indited under the influence of Him to whom all hearts are known, and all events foreknown, they suit man- kind in all situations, grateful as the manna which descended from above, and conformed itself to every palate. The fairesi' productions of human wit, after a few perusals, like gathered flowers, wither in our hands, and lose their fragrance ; but these unfading plants of paradise become, as we are accus- tomed to them, still more and more beautiful ; their bloom appears to be daily heightened ; fresh odours are emitted, and new sweets extracted from them. He who hath once tasted their excellencies, will desire to taste them yet again ; and he who tastes them oftenest will relish them best Home. [For page 32 ] Arthub's Visit Home As he drew near the house, the night was shutting in about it, and there was a melancholy, gusty sound in the trees. Arthur felt as if approaching his mother's tomb. He entered the parlor All was as gloomy and ^till as a deserted house. Presently he heard a slow cautious step overhead. It was in his mother's chamber. His sister had seen him from the window. She hurried down and threw her 'arms around her brother's neck, without uttering a word. As soon a3 he could speak he aifked, *' Is she alive ? "—-he could not 6 '^ My, my mother " She is sleeping,'' answered his sister, *' anil must not know to-night that you are here ; she in too weak to bear it now." " I will go look at her, then, while she sleeps," said he, orawing the handkerohief from his face. Hissister'H sympathy had mude him shed thi^ first tears which had fallen fiom him that day, and he was more composed. Youthful Essays. [Far page 3i.} * 1st E.Tample,-^ExjRAcr trom Popc's Essay on Criticism. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance ; As those move easiest who have learned to dance* 'lis hot enough no harshness give offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense ; Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows. And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows, Bat when loud surges lash the sounding shore. The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slew ; Not 80 when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er the unbending com, and skims along the main. 2nd Bxamfle. — Requisitrs or a Good Pokt. I know the mind that feels indeed the fire The muse imparts, and can command the lyre — Acts with a force, and kindleH with a zeal, Whate'er the theme, that others never fee). Ifhuman woes her soft attention claim, A tender sympathy |>revades the frame ; She pours a sensibility divine Along the nerve of every feeling line. But if a deed, not tamely to be borne. Fire indignation, and a sense of scorn, The strings are swept with such a power, so loud. The storm of music shakes ^he astonished crowd; Zrd [Fa (t u (t «d (t u tt his lister, she in too jhen, while Im his face. iears which )m posed. Essays. Criticism. nee; ance. B flOWS) int roar, to throw, :w} ig the main. POBT. > lyre— so loud, 1 crowd. So, when remote faturity is brought Before the keen inquiry of her thought, A terrible sagacity informs The poet^s hoart ; ho looks to distant storms ; He hears the thunder, ere the tempest lowers, And, arnnr'd with strength surpassing human powers, Seizes events as yet unknown to man, And darts his soul into the dawning plan. Cowper. 3rd i?.ramp/e.— The Red Breast's Winter risiT to thb Cottage. The fowls of heaven, Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around The winnowing store, and claim the little boon Which Providence assigns them. One alone, The Red Breast, sacred to the the household gods. Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky. In-joyless fields, and thorny thickets, leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man His annual visit. Half afraid, he first Against the window beats ; then brisk alights On the warm hearth : then, hopping o*er the floor Eyes all the smiling family askance, And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is ; Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs Attract his slender feet. Thompson. [For page Vr."] 1st Example. ** In a word, says he, about a moT^th after their meeting, he *^ dissolved them : and as soon as he had dissolved them, he ** repented ; but he repented too late of his rashness. Well '< might he repent, for the vessel was now full, and this last ** drop made the waters of bitterness overflow." Here, « « he adds," we draw the curtain, and put an end to bur ** remvks." Lord Bdinbroke^s History of England. f L \\ 2nd Example Trothal wonf forth with the sirtuim of liiM poople. but they met a rook, for Fingiil Htood utimovod : brokiMi, lht>y rolled back from his side : nor did ih.^y roll in suffty ; lh(3 npoar of the kiiij,' pursued Ihoir Ilighi Osaian 3rd Example. ! when the growling' witidM contend, and all The sounding forest fluotuutes in the Htorm, To sink in warm repose, Hnd hear the din Howl o'er the steady battlements. [For page 39.^ Ut Example. — Spring. Who is this beauti/ul virgin that approaohen, clothed in a robe of light green ? She han a garland of flowers on her head, and flowers spring up wherever she seti* her foot. The snow which covered the fields, and the ice which was in the rivers, melt away when she breathes upon them. 1 he young lambs fiisk about her, and (he birds warble in their little throats to welcome her coming, and when they see her, they begin to build their nests. Youths and maidens, have you seen this beautiful virgin ? If you have, tell me who she is and what is her name. Mrs. Barbauld. 2nd Exam.ple, — Summer. Who is this that comes from the South, thinly clad in a light transparent garment ? Her breath is hot and sultry, she seeks the refreshment of the cool shade ; she seeks the clear streams and the crystal brooks, to bathe her languid limbs. The brooks and streams fly from her, and are dried up at her approach. She cools her parched lips with the berries and the grateful acid of fruits ; the seedy melon, the sharp apple, and the red pulp of the juicy cherry, which are 9 opio. but they , ihny rolled ; till) Kpuiir of Osaiiin poured out bo plentifully nround her. When she corned, let me lie under the shade of tlie wproadin^ beoch-tree ; let me walk in the early morning when the dew is yet on the pi.tSf., let me wander in the Noit twilight, when the sheep have returned to the fold, and the &tar of evening appears. Mr8. Barbauld* ,nd all rm, in e. leatre ; while jries the oppo- the eye can Brotvn. to wear ot spare, o dread, »e ; id, le ! due, )w ; ue, )W. od atoning blood? lesbarreaux. id the chief in smmander. CT. r themselves, I rank, and for- .m lost. Now, lich there fetill« inble not ; it is 17 but a small number of the righteous that, apart, work out their own salvation with fear and trembling. All the rest are calm« they know, in general, that the greater number condemn themselves ; yet imagine, that after having lived like others, they will be distinguished from them at their death: thus, each one makes his case a chimerical exception, and augurs favorably for himself. And it is upon this I address you, my brethren here assembled. I speak not of the rest of mankind. I look upon you as if you were alone upon earth, and the thought troubles and alarms me. I suppose that this is your last hour, and the end of the universe ; that the heavens are opening above your heads, and the Son of Man appears in his glory in the midst of this temple ; and you are here assembled, as trembling criminals, upon whom is going to be pronounced sentence of pardon or eternal death. You have vainly flat- tered yourselves : you shall die such as you are to-day. All < these intentions of amendment amuse, and will amuse you to the hour of your death : it is the experience of all ages, yet all you will find new in you, will be, most likely, an increased account, beyond that you would give to-day ; and by what you would be, were you brought into judgment this moment, you may, almost, decide what will be your fate when depart- ing this life. Now, I would ask you — and I ask you, struck with terror whilst I ask, not separating, in this point, your destiny from my own, but feeling, myself, the same impression that I would wish you to partake of— I would ask you, then, if our Lord were now to appear in the midst of this assembly, (the most august in the world), to judge us, and to make the terri- ble distinction between the goats and the sheep, do you believe that the greatest number of us that are here present, would be placed on the right hand? Do you believe that, at least, the distribution would be equal ? Do you believe that he might find here even ten righteous, which the Lord ,#li ^m ^ ■ 18 • could not, formerly, in five cities ? I ask you ; — you are igno- rant, and I also am ignorant. Thou alone, my God ! I knowest those who belong to thee ! But, if we know not those | who Jo belong to him, we know, at least, that sinners do not* Now, who are the faithful here assembled ? Titles and dig- nities ought not to be counted for any thing ; you will be deprived of all these before your Judge .'—Who are they? Many sinners, who will not convert themselves; still more who would, but defer their conversion ; many others who never convert themselves but to relapse ; in f»ct, a groat number who believe they have r,o need of conversion ; this is the state of the reprobate I Take away these four kinds of | sinners from this whole assembly !— for they must be taken away at the great day. Appear -now, ye righteous ! — where are ye? Remnant of Israel, pa^s to the right! Wheat of the Redeemer, withdraw yourselves from the stubble destined for the fire! O God, where aie thine elei-t? and what remains of thine heritage ? Our loss is almost certain, but we think nut of it ; even in that terrible separation that will bn^ day take place, should ' there be but one sinner in this assembly, on the side of the condemned, and a voice from heaven were now in this temple to assure us of it, without naming the person, which of us would not tremble for himself? whs, amongst us , would not fear to be the unhappy one? which of us would not immediataly refer to his conscience, to examine if his crimes had not deservevi this punishment? which of us, seized whh fear would not . ask of our Dord, as the apostles of oid, " Lord is it I ? " and if th^ answer is delayed, which of us would not strive to avert this awful catastrophe by the tears and sigha of a sincere repentance ? MaasUlon, 19 ; — you are igno- le, my God ! B know not those t sinners do not- Titles and dig- g ; you will be Who are they ? vos; still more any others who in fact, a groat onversion ; this 3se four kinds of y must be taken hteous I — where ght ! Wheat of stubbie destined ei-t? and what t of it ; even in le place, should I the side of the w in this temple m, which of us s. would not fear imediataly refer id not deserved fear would not , "Lord is it >f us would not tears and sighs MatsUlon, For page 62.] !«/ Example. Thew:iloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces. The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all that it inhabits, shall dissolve, And, like the baseless* fabric of a vision, Leave not a wreck behind. Shakspeare. ^ *Jnd Example.— hoy K of Praisk. The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in every heart. The proud to gain it, toils on toils endure ; The modest shun it, but to make it sure. O'er globes and sceptres, now on thrones it swells ; Now, trims the midnight lamps in college cells ; 'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads, Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades : It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head. And heaps the plai:i with mountains of the dead ; Nor ends with life, but nods in sable plumes, Adorns our hearse, and flutters on our tombs. [For page 54.] \8t Example. — Douglas' Soliloquy in this Wood. This is the place, the centre of the grove ; There f^tands the oak, the monarch of the wood. How sweet and welcome is this midnight scene ! 'J he silver moon, uncloqded, holds her sway Through skies where I could count each little star ; The fanning west wind scarcely stirs the leaves; The river rushing o'er its pebbled bed, Imposes silence with a stilly sound. In such a place. as this, at such an hour, If ancestry can be in aught believed, Descending spirits have conversed with man, And told the secrets of the world unknown. Home. 20 2nd Example.— The Raising or Jarius'i Dauohtcr. They have watched her last and quivering breath, And the maiden's soul has flown ; They have wrapped her in the robes of death, And laid her dark and alone. But the mother casts a look behind, Upon that fallen flower, Nay, start not — 'twas the gathering winds ; — These limbs have lost their power. And tremble not at that cheek of snow, O'er which the faint light plays ; 'Tis only the crimson curtain's glow, Which thus deceives thy gaze. Did'st thou not close that expiring eye, And feel the soft pulse decay ? And did not thy lips receive the sigh, Which bore her soul away ? She lies on her couch, all pale and hushed, And heeds not thy gentle tread, And is still as spring-flower by traveller crushed, Which dies on its snowy bed. The mother has flown from that lonely room, And the maid is mute and pale : Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb. And dark is her stiffened nail. The mother strays with folded arms, And her head is bent in woe : She shuts her thoughts to joy or charms ; ♦ Nor tear attemps to flow. 21 But listen ! what name salutes her ear? It comos to a heart of stone ; "Jesus," kIih cries, " has no power here j My (laughter's life hao flown." He leads the way to that cold white couch. And bends o*er the senseless form ; Can his be less thjn a heavenly touch ? The maiden's heart is warm ! And the fresh blood comes with a roseate hue, While Death's dark terrors fly ; Her form is raised, and her step is true, And light beams bright in her eye. George W. Doane, Bishop of New Jersey. [fSr Page 67.] POPB AND DrYOBN. Pope professed to have learned his poetry from Dryden, irhom, whenever an opportunity was presented, he praised through his whole life with unvaried liberality ; and perhaps Ms character may receive some illustration if he be compared I .vith his master. Integrity of understanding, and nicety of discernment were Inot allotted in a less proportion to Dryden than to Pope. But JDryden never desired to apply all the judgment that he had. He wrote, and professed to write, merely for the people ; and /hen he pleased others, he contented himself. Pope was not content to satisfy ; he desired to excel, and jtherefore always endeavored to do his best ; he did not court [the candor, but dared the judgment of his reader, and, expect- ling no indulgence from others, he shewed none to himself. He examined lines and words with minute and punctilious observation, and retouched ever}' part with indefatigable dili- jgence, till he had left nothing to be forgiven. Pope had, per« haps, the judgment of Dryden ; but Dryden certainly wanted the diligence of Pope. '>, I 22 In acquired knowlodge, the Muperiority muAt be allowed to Dryden, whose education was more scholastic, and who, bt- fore he became an author, had been allowed more timn for titudy, with better means of information. His mind has a larger range, and heco'lects his images and illustral ions from a more AXletisi ire circumference of science. Diyden knew more of man in his general nature^ and Pope in his local manners. The notions of Dryden were formed by compre- hensive fipeculution, and those uf Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden, and more certainty in that of Pope. Poetry was not the sole praisi of either, for both excelled likewise in prose ; but Pope did not borrow hi^ prose from his predecessor. The style of Dryden is capricious and varied ; that of Pope is cautious and iniform. Dryden obeys the motions of his own mind, Pope constr^s his mind to his own rules of composition. Dryden is some- times vehement and rapid, Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden's page is a natural field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied exuberance of abundant vegetation ; Popu's is a velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and levelled by ihe roller. Of genius, that power w hich constitutes a poet ; that quality without which judgment is cold and knowledge is inert ; that energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and animares; the superiority must, with some hesitation, be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be inferred, that of this poetical vigor Pope had only a little, because Dryden had more ; for eveiy other writer, since Milton, must give placp to Popo; and even of Dryden it must bo said that, if he ha<* b>i.)^t\tHr para- graphs, he has not better poems. Dryd' , .; toances were always hasty, either excited by some external occasion, or exior'ed by domestic necessity ; he composed without con- s'deiation, and published without correction. What his mind fioulu supply at cail, or gather in an excusion, was all that ha soiigh*, and rJl that he gave. The dilatory cai'Jion of m\ he allowed to tic, and who, Lt- >d more limn for His mind han a illustrations from Diyryden, and more the sole praise of but Pope did rot I style of Oiyden ious and iniforra. Pope const r^s Dryden is some- smooth, uniform, field, rising into I exuberance of n, shaven by the oet ; that quality ge is inert ; that , and animates; , bo allowiui to J poetical vigor more ; for eveiy ' to Pop«; and IS bii;r[»(Hr para« Vs ,". i'. tnances eternal occasion, sed without con- ^Vhat his mind on, was all that atoiy caiMion of ""upe enabled him to condense his tentimc^'s, to muih|,)ly hit lages, and to accumulate all that ^tudy m -h* produce, or ^liance mi^ht supply. If the flights ot Dryden, therefore, are ligher, Pope continues longer on the wing. If uf Drydea^M ire the blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular ^nd constant. Dryden often surpasses expectation, and "ope lever falls belov; it. Dryden is read with freqnent astonish- len;, a ^ '< ;>e with perpetual delight. Dr. Johruon. iFor i^u^ . yj.] Inconiistkncixs. Bender* knees, while you are clothed with pride ; heavenly )etitionB, while you are hoarding up treasures upon earth { loly devotions while you lire in the follies of the world • irayers of meekness and charity while your heart is the seat if spite and resentment ; hours of prayer, while you give up lays and years to idle diversions, impertinent visits, and >lish pleasures ; are as absurd, unacceptable services to lod, as forms of thanksgiving from a person that lives on Repining and discontent. [For page 68.] Caution to Students. A little learning is a dangerous thing I Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring ; These shallow draughts intoxicate the brainy And drinking largely sobers us again. Fir'd at first sight with what the muse imparti^ h. fearless youtih we tempt the height of arts. While from the bounded level of our mind Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind } But more advancM, behold with strange surprise, New, distaui meims of endless science rise. So pleased at fir»i the tow'ring Alps we try, Mount o'er the vales, and seem to traad the sky : i U Th* etetnal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last ; But, these attained, we tremble to survey The growing labours of the lengthen'd way : Th' increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes ; Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise. Pope, iForpageQZjGS,] Extract from the spkkch of the Scythian ambassadors TO Alexander, on his making preparations to attack their country. If your person were as gigantic as your desires, the world could not contain you. Your right hand would touch the east, and your left the west at the same time : you grasp at more than you are equal to. From Europe you reach Asia ; from Asia you lay hold on Europe. And if you should conquer all mankind, you seem disposed to wage war with woods and snows, with rivers and wild beasts, and to attempt to subdue nature. But have you considered the usual course of things? have you reflected, that great trees are many years in growing to their height, and are cut down in an hour ? It is foolish to think of the fruit only, without considering the height you have to climb to come at it. Take care, lest while you strive to reach the top, you fall to the ground with the branches you have laid hold on. Besides, what have you to do with the Scythians, or the Scythians with you? We have never invaded Macedon; why should you attack Scythia ? You pretend to be the punisher of robbers ; and are yourself the general robber of mankind. You have taken Lydia ; you have seized Syria ; you are master of Persia ; you have subdued the Bactrians, and attacked India ; all this will not satisfy you, unless you lay jour greedy and insatiable hands upon our flocks and our herds. How imprudent is your conduct ! — you grasp at tichesl Yon \\ Botha [Fori Spe] Fati to ce bi n V a t yie hat ; f? eyes ; F8e. Pope. ^0 ATTACK ' the world h the east, 'P at more ^s'aj from 'onquer aJi ""oods and *o subdne 'f things ? 'arrowing foolish to 'ffht you uJe you ranches or the cedon ; be the >ber of Jyria J nans, » you ' and »P at 25 riches, the possession of which only increases your avarice. Yon increase your hunger by what should produce satiety j 80 that the more you have, the more you desire. *^ Q. Curtius. [For page 69.] Speech of Adherbal to the Roman Senate, imploring THEIR Assistance against Jugvrtha, Fathers ! It is known to you that King Micipsa, my father, on his death-bed, left in charge to Jugurtha, his adopted son, conjunctly with my unfortunate brother Hiempsal and myself, the children of his own name, the administration of the king- dom of Numidia ; directing us to consider the senate and people of Rome as proprietors of it. He charged us to use our best endeavours to be serviceable to the Roman com- monwealth, in peace and war ; assuring us, that your pro- tection would prove to us a defence against all enemies, and would be instead of armies, fortifications, and treasures. While my brother and I were thinking of nothing but how to regulate ourselves according to the directions of our de- ceased father, Jugurtha— the most infamous of mankind ! breaking through all ties of gratitude and of common huma- nity, and trampliftg on the authority of the Roman common- wealth — procured the murder of my unfortunate brother, and has driven me from my throne and native country, though he knows I mherit, from my grandfather Massinissa, and my father Micipsa, the friendship and alliance of the Romans. For a prince to be reduced, by villany, to my distressful circumstances, is calamity enough ; but my misfortunes are heightened by the consideration, that I find myself obliged to solicit your assistance, Fathers, for the service done you by my ancestors, not for any I have been able to render you in my own person. Jugurtha has put it out of my power to deserve anything at your hands, and has forced me to be 2 I fl^f llj I 20 burdensome before I could be useful to you. And yet, if I had no plea but my undeserved misery, who, from a power- ful i^ince, the descendant of a race of illustrious monarchs, find myself, without any fault of my own, destitute of every support, and reduced to the necessity of begging foreign assistance against an enemy who has seized my throne and kingdom ; if my unequalled distresses were all I had to plead, it would become the greatness of the Roman common- wealth, the arbitresB of the world, to protect the injured, and to check the triumph of daring wickedness over helpless innocence. But to provoke your vengeance to the utmost, Jugurtha has driven me from the very dominions which the senate and people of Rome gave to my ancestors, and from which my gi-andfather and my father, under your umbrage, expelled Syphax and the Carthaginians. Thus, Fathers, your kindness to our family is dofeated ; and Jugurtha, in injuring me, throws contempt on you. wretched prince ! O cruel reverse of fortune ! father Micipsa ! is this the consequence of your generosity, that he whom your goodness raised to an equality with your own children, should be the murderer of your children ? Must then the Royal house of Numidia always be a scene of havoc and blood ? While Carthage remained, we suiTered, as was to be expected, all sorts of hardships from their hos- tile attacks : our enemy near ; our only powerful ally, the Roman commonwealth, at a distance ; while we were so circumstanced, we were always in arms, and in action. When that scourge of Africa was no more, we congratula- ted ourselves on the prospect of established peace. But instead of peace, behold the kingdom of Numidia drenched with royal blood, and the only surviving son of its late king flying from an adopted murderer, and seeking that safety in foreign parts which he cannot command in his own kingdom. Whither— whither shall I fly ? If I return to the royal palace of my ancestors, my father's throne is seized by the 27 murderer of my brother. What can I there expect, but that Jugurtha should hasten to imbrue in my blood those hands which are now reeking with ray brother's t If I were to fly for refuge or for assistance to any other courts, from what prince can I hope for protection, if the Roman common- wealth give me up ? From my own family or friends, I have no expectations. My royal father is no raorp : he is beyond the reach of violence, and out of hearing of the com- plaints of hiS unhappy son. Wero my brother alive, our mutual sympathy would be some alleviation ; but he is hur- ried out of life in his early youth, by the very hand which should have been the last to injure any of the royal family of Numidia. The bloody Jugartha has butchered all whom he suspected to be in my interest. Some have been destroyed by the lingering torment of the cross ; others have been given to a prey to wild beasts, and their anguish made sport of by men more cruel than wild beasts. If there be any yet alive, they are shut up in dungeons, there to drag out a life more intolerable than death itself. Look down, illustrious senators of Rome ! from that height of power to which you are raised, on the unexampled dis- tresses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a wicked intru- der, become an ouctast from all mankind. Let not the crafty insinuations of him who returns murder fur adoption, prejudice your judgment. Do not listen to the wretch who has butchered the son and relations of a king, who gave him power to sit on the same throne with his own sons. I have been informed that he labors, by his emissaries, to prevent your determining anything against him in his absence ; pre- tending that I magnify my distress, and might for him have staid in peace in my own kingdom. But, if ever the time come when the due vengeance from above shall overtake him, he will then dissemble as I do. Then he who now, hardened in wickedness, triumphs over those whom his violence has laid low, will, in his turn, feel distress, and suffer for his im- 2* 28 pious ingratitude to my father, and his blood-thirsty cruelty to my brother. O murdered, butchered brother ! O dearest to my heart- now gone forever from my sight !— But why should I lament his death? He is indeed deprived of the blessed light of heaven, of life, and kingdom, at onoe, by ih6 very person who ought to hav^e been the first to hazard his own life in de- fence of any one of Mioipsa's family ; but as things are, my brother is not so mueli deprived of these comforts, as deli- vered from terror, from flight, from exile, and the endless train of miseries which render life to me a burden. He lies full low, gored with wounds, and festering in his own blood ; but he lies in peace ; he feels none of the miseries which rend my soul with agony and distraction, whilst I am set up a spectacle to all mankind of the uncertainty of human affairs. So far from having it in my pcver to revenge his death, I am not master of the means of securing my own life ; as far from being in a condition to defend my kingdom from the violence of the usurper, I am obliged to apply for foreign protection for my own person. Fathers ! senators of Rome ! the arbiters of the world ! — to you I liy for refuge from the murderous fury of Jugurtha. — by your aftection for your children, by your love for your country, by your own virtues, by the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, by all that is sacred, and all that is dear to you — deliver a wretched prince from undeserved, unprovok- ed injury ; and save the kingdom of Numidia, which is your own property, from being the prey of violence, upurpation, and cruelty. Salluste. \ [For page 70.] Object of thb Present Life. Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger to human nature, accidentally aligat upon the earth, and take a survey of its inhabitants, what would jiis notions of us be ? Would 29 [not he think, that we are a species of beings made for quite [difTerent ends and purposes than what we really are? • Must not he imagine that we are placed in this world to get riches ^ and honours ? Would not he think that it was our duty to toil after wealth, and station, and title 1 Nay, would not he believe we weie forbidden poverty by threats of eternal pun- ishment, and enjoined to pursue our pleasures under pam of damnation? He would certainly imagine that we were influenced by a scheme of duties quite opposite to those which are indeed prescribed to us. And truly, according to such an imagination, he must conclude that we are a species of the most obedient creatures in the universe ; that we are constant to our duty, and that we keep a steady eye on the end for which we were sent hither. But how great would be his astonishment, when he learnt that we were beings not destined to exist in this world above threescore and ten years ; and that the greatest part. of this busy species fall short even of that age ! How would he be lost in horror and admiration, when he should know that this set of creatures, who lay out all their endeavours for this life, which scarce deserves the name of existence ; when, I say, he should know that this set of creatures are to exist to all eternity in another life, for which they make no pre- parations? Nothing can be a greater disgrace to reason, than that men, who are pursuaded of these two diflfeient states of being, should be perpetually employed in providing for a fife of threescore and ten years, and neglecting to make provisions for that, which after many myriads of years, will be still new, and still beginning ; especially whea we consi- der that our endeavours for making ourselves great, or rich, or honorable, or whatever else we place our happiness in, may after all, prove unsuccessful ; whereas, if we constantly and sincerely endeavour to make ourselves happy in the other life, we are sure that our endeavours will succeed, and that we shall not be disappointed of our hope. Aamson. 30 {For page 15.] TiiK Djcities xngaoed in Battle. But when the powers descending swell'd the fight| Then tumult rose ; fierce rage and pale affright Varied each face ; then discord sounds alarms, Earth echoes, and the nations run to arms. Now, through the trembling shores, Minerva calls, And now she thunders from the Grecian walls ; Mars, hov'ring o'er his Troy, his terror shrouds In gloomy tempests and a night of clouds ; Now, through the Trojan heart he fury pours, With voice divine from Illion's topmost towers ; Now, shouts to Simois from her beauteous hill ; The mountains shook ; the rapid streams stood still. Above, the Sire of gods his thunder rolls, And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles. Beneath, stern Neptune shakes the solid ground ; The forests wave ; the mountains nod around ; Through all their summits tremble Ida's woods, And from their sources boil her hundred floods. Troy's turrets totter on the rocking plain, And the toss'd waves beat the heaving main. Deep in the dismal regions of the dead. The infernal monarch rear'd his horrid head ; Leapt from his throne, lest Neptune's arm should lay. His dark dominions open to the day, • And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes. Abhorred by men, and dreadful e'en to gods Papers Homer. [For page 79.] Extract from Addison's Essay on the Pleasures or THE Imagination. Our sight \» the most perfect and most delightful of all our senses.' It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, IconveTses Itinues the Pwilh its ] indeed gi^ , ideas that time it is tions, to objects, defects, a give kind tude of 1 into our r It is tl ideas •, I (which from vie our vie^ paintini We cai notraa the p< image A sure con Stat anc am hii m hi 31 [converses with its objects at the greatest distance, and con- Itinues the longest in action without being tired or satiated 'with its proper enjoyments. The sense of feeling can ' indeed give us a notion of extension, shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, except colours ; but at the same time it is very much straightened and confined in its opera- tions, to the number, bulk, und distance of its particular objects. Our sight seems designed to supply all these defects, and may be considered as a more delicate and diffu- sive kind of touch, that spreads itself over an infinite multi- tude of bodies, comprehends the largest figures, and brings into our reach some of the most remote parts of the universe. It is this sense which furnishes the imagination with its ideas ; so that by the pleasures of the imagination or fancy (which I shall use promiscuously) I here mean such as arise from visible objects, either when we have them actually in our view, or when we call up their ideas into our minds by- paintings, statues, descriptions, or any the like occasion. We cannot indeed have a single image in the fancy that did not make its first entrance through the sight ; but we have the power of retaining, altering, and compounding those images, which we have once received, into all the varieties of picture and vision that are most' agreeable to the imagina- tion ; for by this faculty a man in a dungeon is capable of en- tertaining himself with scenes and landscapes more beautiful than any that can be found in the whole compass of nature. A man of a polite imagination is let into a great many plea- sures that the vulgar are not capable of receiving. He can converse with a picture, and find an agreeable companion in a statue. He meets with a secret refreshment in a description, and often feels a greater satisfaction in the prospect of fields and meadows, than another does in the possession. It gives him indeed a kind of property in every thing he sees, and makes the most rude uncultivated parts of nature administer to his pleasures : so that he looks upon the world, as it were, in 32 'fl' t ■•I another light, and discovers in it a multitude of charms, that conceal themselves from the generality of mankind. There are indeed but very few who know how to be idle and innocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that are not criminal ; every diversion they take is at the expense of some one virtue or another, and thei. /ery first step out of business is into vice or folly. A man should endeavour, there- fore, to make the sphere of his innocent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may retire into them with safety, and find in them such a satisfaction as a wise man would not blush to take. Of this nature are those of the imagination, which do not require such a bent of thought as is necessary to our more serious employments, nor at the same time suffer the mind to sink into that negligence and remissness, which are apt to accompany our more sensual delights, but, like a gentle exercise to the faculties, awaken them from sloth and idleness, without putting 1 hem upon any labor or difficulty. — {The Spectator y No. 411, vol. m.] r * EXAMPLES OORRESPONDINO TO THE PRECBPTS OF POETICAL COMPOSITION. [For page 161,} lat Example. — Providenck. As a fond mother her young group beholds, And with a burning heart above them bends — One kisses on the brow — one to her bosom folds ; Whilst one enclasps her knee, one from her foot depends ; And to their looks, sighs, attitudes attends. Whatever wants or wishes they unfold, To this a glance, to that a gift extends ; And smiles or frowns — but never waxes cold. Thus watcheth Pravidence with sleepless eyes. And comforts one, and one with hope implants ; And lists to all, — and aid to all supplies ; Or should she seem insensate to our wants, Because unask'd the boon alone denies, Or feigns denial — and denying grants. Froni the Italian of Filicaja. Qnd Example. — The Evening Cloud. A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun — A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow ; Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ; E'en in its very motion there was rest. While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. 34 Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given ; And. by the breath of meroy, made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven ; Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. Wilton, 3rd Example, — To My Mothbr. And canst thou, mother, for a moment think That we, thy children, when old age shah shed Its blanching honours on thy weary her.d, Could from our best of duties ever shrink 7 Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink, Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, To pine, in solitude, thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought I — ^where'e)- f>nr steps may roam, O'er (smiling plains, or wasteb without a tree. Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, And paint the pleasures of peaceful home ; While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage. And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. H. K. mute. fi A 4th Example. — Evening. Already hath the day grown grey with age ; And in the west, like to a conqueror crowned. Is faint with too much glory. On the ground He flings his dazzling arms ; and, as a sage, Prepares him for a cloud-hung hermitage. Where meditation meets him at the door ; And all around— a wall, and roof, and floor, Some pensive star unfolde* its silver page V 35 Of truth, which God's own hand hath testified. Sweet eve ! whom poets sing to as a bride ) Queen of the quiet — Eden of Time's bright map— « Thy look allures me from my hushed fireside, And sharp leates rustling at my casement tap. And beckon forth my mind to dream upon thy lap ! Blanchard, (For page 163.] l8t Example. — Parting Sono. 'Tis o'er,— the sweet ties that have bound us are riven } The words, " We must part," have rung out like a knell, A long, long adieu to dear friends must be given — Kind mothers ! loved sisters ! we part — oh ! farewell. We go,— 'never more shall this proud hall be ringing With voices that blend in the parting song now ; And the past, gliding from us, a shadow is flinging— A shadow of sadness, on each youthful brow. But never the name of the Tnothers we cherish. From memory's page shall unfaithfully fade ; The garland of roses we twine here may perish. But never the wreath on our grateful hearts laid. Their sweet, guiding oare, can no longer attend us, Thro' life's wild'ring mazes we're destined to stray ; Yet, heavenward, they're lifting pure hands to defend us^ What harm can befall us ? — our good mothers pray. UrnUineBf Quebec. X. 36 2nrf /iVrtW/)/e.— SoNn or a (jrbbk ffii.ANOBR iN tSxiLK. A Onivk Inlnniler bnin^ (nkiin lo (he Vvle orTumpa, and called u|M>rt lo adrttire iu boaiitifiil ■lunitry, replied} « Yeai all in (kit \ hut ihe ma-^ whore imlie Mtnl'* Wheru in tliu Hoa?— I languiMh hero-« VVIiuru in my own blue aua? With nil ilN barkn of iioot carder^ And flagn iirid breoxus free. t niifiii thiit voico of wavoK— the firs' That woke my ohiidish glee t The iiumsiirud chime — the thundering burst—* Wimru in my own blue sea? Oh I rich your myrtles' breath may risei Soft, soft, your winds may be ; Yet my niok heart within me dies-* Where in my own blue sea? 1 hoar the shepherd^s mountain flute, I hear the whispering tree — The nohoen of my soul are mute — Whore in my own blue soa ? Mrs. Hemanct [For page 164.1 Ut E.vamjde.—Tnt Hark and tub Tortoihi]. In dayn of yore, when Time was young, When birds conversed as well as sung, When use of speech was not confined ' Merely to brutes of human kind. A forward hare, of swiftness vain, The genius of ihe neighbouring plain. Would oft This sunset, that dull night will shade,— These visions, which must quickly fade, With half-immortal memory braid For me when far from here. Miss Jetosbury. Qnd Example. — To the Mamory of Miss Matilda Latour. To one now gone, yet ever dear, A friend sincere and true ! Ah ! come, kind reader, yield a tear. To native goodness due. The cloistered walks, with pensive step I tread, A mournful silence reigns o'er all around : Where has the voice of mirth and gladness fled ? Why are those youthfiil brows with sadness crown'd ? Behold ! an early victim of the tomb— The rose and lily twine around her bier : In youth and beauty she like them did bloom For a brief space — like them to disappear. A heart that glowed with feelings warroand fond, Lies there unstrung — e'en like a broken lute. No more her witching smiles to oars respond, Her lips, forever sealed in death, are mute. Methinks, as then, beside her oouo h of pain Amid that silent group I bend the knee ; I hear the patient suflierer sigh again, " Oh God, my God ! when shall I be with Thee." ! \ 44' " II V. Ah, lovely girl ! full long shall Metn'ry keep, Her vigils round thee l—oft shall Fancy hear Thy mellow voice, so flute like, yet so deep ; Or meet those soul-lit eyes, placid and clear. Alas ! how stern was this decree of fate *, — Afar from home ! mid strangers thus to die ; A fond, maternal heart, now desolate, Will bleed -or break — until ye meet on high. Come blest Religion! com:i with healing balm And bring a solace to her broken heart ; — Teach her to wait, in resignation calm. Death's summons from this weeping vale to part. A sainted voice, in accents all of love. Says, " Haste, dear mother, to this land of rest, Earth merits not a wish— ah ! soar above, To dwell with Jesus, Mary, and the Blest." Ursulines, Quebec, May 1st, 1843. • X. V I 3rd Example. — Elegi'. [In memory of Miss M , who died of the yellow fever, in the Bermudas, shortly after her arrival there, in the autumn of 1851.] I heard 1^ wail— 'twas from afar. From a burning Southern shore — It told of cruel fell disease, Of death, and mourning sore. It told of tbnd hopes blasted there — Of loveliness laid low ; It told of grief-worn, anguish'd hearts, Wrung with excess of woe. 45 eep, hear epj Jlear. lie ; high. >alm to part, f rest, IT." died of the her arrival I heard that father call upon His daughter's lifeless form ; His voice was hoarse, as is the wind, I'hat moans irt midnight storm. His manly brow was bow'd in dost : — That fair girl wa3 his last ! The last of three—their father*s pridey Ere the Pale -Rider passed. Then on my ear fell softer notes j — 'Twas woman's gentle tone : That mother ! nursed in suffering, Could she give up " her own ?" Cou'd she, unmurmuring, look upon I'hat cold and senseless clay 1 'Tis all that's left of what was erst. Her comfort anc' her stay. Could she resign that tender flower^ And see it withering lie, Nor utter one repining word^ Nor one dtspairing cry ? Ah ! say not woman's heart is weak j — Not so, her faith is great — For see 1 she bears her bitter lot, Nor sinks— tho' desolate. Meekly she bears ^er cross with him, Her partner in distress. For hope assures they'll meet the mourn'd. In climes of changeless bliss. Beloved Maria ! rest 4 that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of ecstacy, The secrets of the Abyss to spy. He passed the fiaming bounds of place and time : The living throne, the sapphire blaze. Where angels tremble while they gaze. He saw ; but blasted with excess of light^ Closed his eyes in endless night. 11 Parnassus, a Grecian mountatn, sacred to the Muses. 12 Latian, Italian ; Rome was built in that part of Italy called Latium. 13 Nature's darlingy Shakspeare. 14 hSi Milton. 5$ With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er theiields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal racelfl, JHark, his hands the lyre explore ! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn. But, ah ! 'tis heard no more. — Oh, lyre divine ! what daring spirit Wakes thee now ? though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, ThM the Theban eaglelB bear, bi with supreme dominion 1 ^n the azure deep of air : Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun ; Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way, Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate. Beneath the good how far, but far above the great ! Th« EvfiNiMo Wind. Written in North America. Spirit that breathest through my lattice— thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day — Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow, Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now. Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I ^rslcorae thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea f 16 race. In these lines an effort is made to express (he stately march of Dryden's lines. 16 TUeban eagi^. Pindar, the greatest of the ancient lyric poets, wa« a native of Thebes. 56 ! Nor I alone : a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delitrht, And languid forms rise up> and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade — go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest. Curl the still waters, bris;ht with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest ; Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast. Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. And 'twixt the overshadowing branches and the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; And they who stand about the rich man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.' Go ; — ^but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore. With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range. Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more ; Sweet oders in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of th» shore ; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. William Cullen Bryant. 57 ight, ihl PlBTY. She comes from beside Jehovah's throne, With a beauty and '• usefulness '* all her own ; With her robe of " variety " streaming down, Like the rainbow tints on the clouds of Even : And yet, like AuiX)ra, fresh and bright. And fair as the Moon on a cloudless night. And strong as an army arrayed for fight, She descends to Earth from the Gates of Heaven. Her eyes are like those of the gentle Dove — Her accents are sweet with the breath of love : Her smiles are for all— whether rich or poor, And her blessings are scattered at every door : Her ears are open to every call. And she stoops from Heaven — all to all. Behold her a shepherdess on the plain, A meek-eyed Recluse in the grotto's shade : The lowliest cottage she does not disdain. Nor flees from the palace in pomp arrayed. Where the din of the busy town is loud. You will find her mixed with the stirring crowd : Where the Hermit dwells on the silent hill. She is there by his side, in the solitude : She sits on the turf of the crystal rill. Where the laborer eats his rustic food, And yet where the sumptuous fare is spread She does not refuse her spirit to shed. She is grave with the Matron grave and sage, With the Damsel she sports of tender age, With the serious, serious— and yet gay. When the hour to be serious has passed away. With the weeping she weeps, with the laughing, laughs ; With the sorrowing, of their chalice quaffs : 98 I With the Statesman looks to the public weal, And with the Apostle burns with zeal. The fountain of wisdom she is to the wise, With the Soldier all nerve in the battle-hour ; With the Holy Seer she scans the skies, And sings with the Foet in shady bower. Like the genial rays of the vernal sun Paintinu all things they shine upon, •'Scattering abroad their hues and dyes With infinite, lovely varieties : Those rays on the dewy grass are green, White in the jessamine, red in the rose ; The hyacinth smiles on their azure sheen, And tinged with their j'ellow the sun-flower glows : Still the li^ht which diffuses its rays upon Green, white, red, and azure, and yellow, are one. So Piety, though all varied on £arth, Now melting with grief, and now dimpling with mirth, Now urging the Warrior on to the plain. Now keeping watch with the Hermit lone. Now soothing >he pangs of a Mother's pain. Now mourning with some disconsolate one, Now clad in Poverty's ragged weeds, • • Now robed in ermine and purple rich, Is the same — when the heart is glad or bleeds— With all conditions— she recks not which : — With all who seek it, her spirit will rest. And "without distinction" all may be blest. Dr. C. Pise, CcUh. Clergyman of Brooklyn, Y. V. [For J tl, liour ; er glows : are one. with mirth, tain. bleeds— !St. )klyn, Y. Y. 5§ iForpa^e 37.1 I'Hx Child's Wj^h im Juns. Mother, mother, the winds are at play; Prithee thqe ]et me be idle to day. Look, dear mother, the fiowers all lie Languidly under the bright blue sky ; See how slowly the streamlet glides ; Look, how the violet roguishly hides; Even the butterfly rests on the rose, And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun, And the flies go about him one by one ; And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace, Without ever thinking of washing her face. There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree ; But very lazily flieth he ; And he sits and twitters a gentle note, That scarcely ruffles his little throat. You bid me be busy ; but, mother, hear How the humdrum grasshopper souudeth near ; And the soft west wind is so light in its play, It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. I wish, oh, I wish I were yonder cloud. That sails about with its misty shroud ; Books and work I no more should see. But I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee ! Mr8, Gilmore* 60 Limbs on Rkckivimo a Hosb ymoM a Child» She gave me a Rose,— 'twas the prettiest that grew In her fragrant and elegant bower : And her innooent grace and coy artlessness threw A fresh charm on that beautiful flower : I took it, as Adam, when Paradise smiledy Might have taken a bud from an Angel of Light } For no spirit was gentler than that of this child, And no blossom more pure to the sight. Dr, PiH» H itj MISCELLANEOUS EXAMPLES FOR STUDY AND ANALYSIS. He Comes to Rest within my Heart. He comes to rest within my heart, As meek as infancy ; Ohy what shall ever tear apart This loving Guest from me ! As on the softly-blooming flowers The dews descend at even. So grBce upon my heart in showers, Descends liom holy Heaven. And as the flow'ret bathed in dew Breathes odors from its breast, So shall my favored bosom too, Breathe fervor to my guest. He comes to rest within my heart, As meek as infancy : Oh, what shall ever tear apart This loving Guest from me ! Dr. PUe. 62 Hymn. I. My God ! yon matin ray Which, like a dimple bright| Glows on Aurora's cheek, As shrinks the shadowy night, Tells of those guiltless hours I passed in childhood's bowers, Su innocently-gay. II. My God ! yon flaming sun High in his noon-day car Drawn by the steeds of Heaven; Flinging their red manes far, Bids the reflecting soul Think how the swift hours roll — How soon life's prime is done. III. My God ! yon gem of Eve Upon the twilight brow Of Hesper glimmering faint, Tells all is fading now ; Shadows are gathering fast : Look, mortal, look thy last, And take thy long, long leave t IV. My God ! if morning bright. When peace crowned all the hours, Hath from me past away. And with it childhood's flowers j And if my manhood's noon Goes from me — ah ! how soon ! ^'- While gathers sombre night. 63 V. Oh! as the last dim ray Still flickers in the Kkiea, My God I close not thine ear, Turn not away thine eyes : My prayer, my prayer ascends, As Mfe's last taper ends — Spare — as I pass away I Dr. Pise, Thk Bird or Paradise and the Cherub. Suggested by the death of a lovely Infant, I. List ! List ! — the Bird of Paradise Carols her eweet hymn forth : And from the blest bowers of the skies, Comes down upon the earth ; He comes to bear a message bright To a sweet cherub — the delight Of those that gave her birth. II* He perched upon the gentle child Whilst smiling she reposed, iBearing upon her features mild And lovely — as she dozed — The impress of her mother dear, Who watched her slumber with a tear, And her meek eyelids cloi^ed. Ill . And to the Cherub thus he sung The tidings brought from Heaven: ** Come with me, innocent and young, And thou shall be, ere even. In bowers of Peace and groves of Bliss— Thou art not made for worlds like this, Far better will be given ! 64 i )f IV. " Come to the realms of Paradiaoi Where angels weave their wreaths From flowers ambrosial of the skies, On which Spring ever breathes. And $uch a Spring !— not like the one Which now so brightly smiles upon The meadows and the heaths. ▼. ** Come to the everlasting Spring Where flowers undying bloom. Where we, of Paradise, will sing While fond ones deck thy tomb : There wilt thou, spotless Cherub, twine A garland for those friends of thine Whom Love shall thither bring." VI. The Cherub heard the message-bird — The Bird of Paradise : — And calmly, when the message heard, She closed her meek, blue eyes ; And, ia an instant, wing'd her flight . To Elysian groves of Love and Light, Amid the holy skies. Dr. /*! w. The Ship at Anchor. Is she not beautiful ? reposing there On her own shadow, with her white wings fnrlM ; Moveless, as in the sleepy, sunny air, Bests the meek swan in her own quiet world. Is she not beautiful ? her graceful bow Triumphant rising o'er the enamoured tides ; That, glittering in the noonday sunbeam, now Just leap and die along her polished sides. w A thousand eyes are on her ; for she fioatSf Confessed a queen, upon the subject main ; And, hark I as from her decks delicious note% Breathe, softly breathe, a souNentrancing strain. Music upon the waters I pouring soft From shore to shore along the charmed wave ; The seaman's dreariest toils beguiling oft. And kindling high (he ardor of the brave. Yet, wafted by the morning's favoring breeze. Far from the slumbering flood and leaf-hung bay, I'hat matchless bark upon the faithless seas Shall wend her wild and eolitary way. There, haply tempest-borne, far other sounds Than those shall tremble thro' her quiv'ring form ; And as from surge to mightier surge she bounds, Shall swell, toned infinite, the midnight storm ! In vain ! she spurns the ignoble calm, and loves To front the tempest in his gathering hour ; Waked as to life, thd fleet-wing'd wonder roves Where loudest lift the winds a voice of power ! Then go, deceitful beauty I bathe thy breast For ever where the mountain billows foam, E'en as thou wilt.— The hour of peace and reat Is not for thee. — The ocean is thy home. Carrington. Serenity. Reflected on the lake, I love To see the stars of evening glow j So tranquil in the heavens above, So restless in the wave below. 66 Thus, heavenly hope is all serene ; But earthly hope, how bright soe'er, Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene. As false and fleeting as 'tis fair. Heber. Morning. What secret hand, at morning light, . By stealth unseals mine eye, Draws back the curtain of the night. And opens earth and sky ? 'Tis thine, my God — the same that kept My resting hours from harm ; No ill came nigh me, for I slept Beneath the Almighty's arm. 'Tis thine — my daily bread that brings, Like manna scatter'd round ; And clothes me, as the lily springs In beauty from the ground. Thine is the hand that shaped my frame, And gave my pulse to beat ; That bare me oft through flood and flame, Through tempest, cold, and heat. In death's dark valley though I stray, 'Twould there my steps attend ; Guide wiih the staff my lonely way, And with the rod defend. May that dear Hand uphold me still, Through life's uncertain lace. To bring me to thine holy hill. And to thy dwelling place. Seber. 67 RkMEMB RANGE. THE REMEMBRANCE OF YOUTH IS A SIGH. Man hath a weary pilgrimage As through the world he wends ; On every stage from youth to age Still discontent attends: With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before, And still remembers, with a sigh. The days that are no more. «• v -ii H To school the little exile goes, Torn from his mother's arms, — What then shall soothe his earliest woes» When novelty hath lost its charms ? Condemned to sudfer, through the day, Restraints which no rewards repay, And cares — where love has no concern, Hope lengthens as she counts the hours fiefore his wish'd return. From hard control and tyrant rules, The unfeeling diitcipline of schools. In thought he loves to roam : And tearH will struggle in his eye While he remembers, with a sigh^ The comforts of his home. Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind ; Where shall the tired and harass'd heart Its consolation find 1 68 Then is not youth, as fancy tells, Life's summer prime of joy ? Ah no ! for hopes too long delay'd, And feelings blasted or betray'd, The fabled bliss destroy : And youth remembers with a sigh The careless days of infancy. Maturer manhood now arrives, And other thoughts come on ; But, with the baseless hopes of youth. Its generous warmth is gone : Cold, calculating cares succeed. The timid thought, the wary deed, The dull realities of truth ; Back on the past he turns his eye, Remembe *ing with an envious sigh The happy dreams of youth. So reaches he the latter stage Of this our mortal pilgrimage. All Good Nigmt. " Good night ! "-— »Tis a pleasant, kindly sound ! Why thrills my heart with a quicker bound ?— They are household words ; and time's rapid flight Has broken the band j—Iike a kndlj sounds, " Good night. " They call to mind the long-past hours When life was fair as elysian bowers, And I heeded not joys that fled from my sight . When eve's sable curtain bade us part, with, " Good night." 69 Now jocund laugh and mirth resound, For happy children are gathering round ; To rest they hie with waning light, And to parents dear, *< Grood night, good night ! " All gay of heart they are parting there, — Nor do they heed the mother's prayer That time may ne'er assert his right. To shroud that hearth where 'tis now, " Good night." That mother has hush'd her babe to rest, In quiet 'tis slumbering on her breast ; And she breathes a prayer to the Father of light To bless her babe ; — with her fond, " Good night." Shall these visions fade, — th«3se bright hopes pall ? These holy ties be sunder'd all ? Shall death chain forms so gay and bright, And part those dear ones, with a long, " Good night ?" Yes ! such is life ; — a rolling stream j — Its very joy, a fleeting dream ! But hope points onward, with beacon bright To an endless day, where comes no, " Good night." Jane, {Pupil of the UrstUinea.) Adi£u to th£ Convent. Sacred shrine of holy feeling. Blest abode of dove-like peace. Hark ! the fatal knell is pealing ! Must thy kind protection cease T Must the ties fore'er be broken. Which so long have bound me here? And no more kind words be spoken By those friends I hold so dear ? 70 Oh ! how hard it is to leave thee^ Guardian of my sunny hours ! Who, alas ! will soothe or cheer me Wh6; life's tempest o*er me lowers ? Who, when sorrows quickly pressing Rct 'id '^'iis care-worn brow of mine, Wiii with gentle, fond caressing, Consolation give like thine ? Painful is this sad, sad parting — I alone its anguish know ! Ask not then, why tears are starting Say not ; why this grief, this woe ? Last adieu ! dear Friends, dear Mothers ! Ah ! may Heaven repay you well ! I must now seek friends in others, But forget me not ! Farewell ! E. Galbraith. {Pupil of the Ursulines.) Ursulines, Quebec, July, 184.. The Golden Jubiler. (Fiftieth anniversary of the priestly ordination of our vcner ated chaplain. Rev. Thos. Maguire, V. G.) In vain have I attempted to control The kindling thoughts that rush upon my soul, .Or bid the expression on my lip expire, Or stay the hand that longs to strike the lyre, As o'er the twilight depths of fifty years Rapt Fancy sweeps. Before my view appears An antique temple. Pious crowds are kneeling, And, from the dome, the deep-toned belli? are pealing : Within the sanctuary rich vestments glow ; The crosier towers ; the surplioed priests bow low : n Svreet incense rises ; — music floats along, And lofty aisles the sacred hymn prolong ; The mitred Prelate,— vested from on high With awful power,— almost to deify, Advances, and commits, with rites august. To youthful hands, a mighty, sacred trust I 3r3 ! UrsuUnea.) ourvcner- 'Tis done, and now begins that bright career^ Of which we celebrate the fiftieth year ! But who, with able hand, shall weigh the amount Of hifl vast labours ? his good deeds recount? The miracles of patience, piety and zeal ; His sacrifices for his neighbour's weal ! Shall I call forth those riches, safely stored^ His labours in the vineyard of the Lord ? And count the summer suns, and winter skiesy He saw, as parish-pastor^ o'er him rise ? Shall I retrace, thro' forests all untrod, His steps to win the Red-man^ to his Grod ? Or see him with creative hand engage Where fostering sciences forms the future saget Then crossing seas, and distant climes exploring^ In Rome, at the Apostle's shrine adoring ; Or viewing her famed temples ;— still in all He serves Religion ; — journeys at her call. But wherefore dwell with praise on years gone by. Their record lives — 'tis registered on high sealing : ow: 1 Parish of St. Michel. 2 Two years spent as Missionary among the Indians. 3 The college of St. Hyacinth numbers Rev. T. M. among its chief benefactors. The allusions contained in the lines which follow, will be sufficiently clear to the pupils of the [Jrsulines, accustomed to hear the deceased spoken of in terms of unfailing gratitude. 72 For U8f in later years there is a theme, , Sweet as the gushing of some mountain str)?am, Whose silvery waters, murmuring as they flo«*). firing life and beauty to the meads below. Tis whtm that generous servant of the Lord, With mind by nature, £cIenco, virtue, stored, Renouncing honors, offered to but few, Into an humbler sphere, wil! pleased, withdrew. 'Tis then we hailed him Father, Friend, and Guide; When o*er our destinies he deigned preside. Oh ! sweet it is to follow quite secure, A Guide of precept and example sure ; And s'l^eet to know his every wish and care, 'I'erids b\{t to make us happy : — such our share I Our 'ncxm hearts glow, and tears suffuse our eyes While fervent prayers, for him, to heave a arise, Long may he live — till rich in glorious «iays, Richer in merits, his freed soul shall raise Her eager wings, with holy ardor rife, And burst exultant on a brighter life ! Ursulinb Convsmt, Quebec, May 9, 18.. k Addrkss prkskntkd bt thx pupils of the Ur8ulin£ Con- VKNT, TO THX RbV. MotHXR SuPCRIOR ON A FKiTAL OCCASION. Dear Reverend Mother ! Long our wishes call This festal day, that gilds at last our Hall ! For now, all oluster'd round thee, we may tell The feelings kind that in our young hearts dwell ; And speak of gratitude, unfeigned, sincere. For all thy countless favors, Mother dear ! Who is it seeks with true maternal zeal. Our present happiness, and future weal ? 73 ream, ad, drew. d Guid«j e, lare ! IT eyes trise. X. IVUNE CON- M A FSBTAL Who watches o'er her flock with tender care ? Whose warning voice would guard from ev'ry snare ? And when our wayward feet are prone to stray, Who guides us sweetly back to wisdom's way ? Ah ! it is thine, dear Mother, thus to blend The offices of Guardian, Parent, Friend. Yes ! as the gardener tends with equal care The various plants that bloom in his parterre, This from far China, that from India's shore. These from the mountain cliff where torrents roar ; On each bestows the needful time and toil, Till each unfolds as in its native soil ; — So we transplanted to the cloister's shade, The objects of thy special care are made ! Oh ! may our minds' unfolding beauties prove Some slight return for thy unwearied love ! Here let me pause ! 'tis an inspiring theme, But words, alas ! how very weak they seem, And how they mock our efforts to portray All that we feel on this dear festal day ; Ah ! let the echoes of this proud Hall ring, While with one voice, as with one heart we sing : Long live our Mother dear ! long live our Friend ! May joys unnumbered on her steps attend ! Long may that star of purest ray serene, Gild with new gladness every Convent scene ; Nor disappear, but brighter still to rise. And glow with fadeless lustre in the skies ! Meanwhile, as years revolve we'll hail its gentle ray, And raise the joyful shout : " Long live St. Andrew's day ! " 9ll; Ursulinks, Quebec, Nov. 39, 1856. X n A Fkstal OrrESiMo. (for the feast of St. Thomas, of Canterbury, patron of our venerable Chaplain, JRev. Th. Maguire.> Heard- ye that silvery strain of triumph ring 7 Saw ye, descending swift on radiant wing, That bright-robed angel ? who's the victor now ? That glorious crown is ibr a martyr's brow ! For thine, heroic son of Albion's Isle, — Thou of the upright soul, devoid of guile ! Illustrious Prelpte I whose unblemished name Is wreath'd with laurels of innnortal fame. Vainly did foes insult ; their feeble rage Mov'd not the steady purpose of the sage. Let vile assassins come — he'll calmly wait, True to his trust, and firmly meet his fate. Oh ! glorious fate ! to give one's life for God — To hold the faith, and seal it with one'is blood. Ask Canterbury, now, who is her boast ; Will she proud' Henry show, and all his host, Or the meek martyr I But wherefor<) call on heaven For bright examples holy men have given ? Live there not still the just, the pure of hear:, E'en as the Syrian cedar towers apart. Resists the storm^ and casts a goodlier shade Where all the forest's pride is prostrate laid ? Lives there not one whose merits we revere ? Companions, say ! one whom our hearts hold dear, Whose eherish'd name is iink'd with all we love — With present joys and hopes ci bliss above : One who has taught our youthful minds to soar Above those pleaemres wordtings vain adore ? Yes I Reverend Father ! and might we this day Attempt thy worth exalted to portray. >f our venerable ng? )r now ? lame e. od— >)ood. lost, Lven n? ide id? re? old dear, we love — e: > soar re? is day 75 What glowing imagery the muse shonld bring ! How would the Convent's loudest echoes ring 1 But if the garland thus unformed we leave, A fairer wreath our grateful hearts shall weave, When, humbly bowed before the sacred shrine, We join thee at the myerteries divine I There, 'mid those spl'udors man may not unfold. We'll ask for blessings human tongue ne'er told. Urmline Convent, Quebec December 28, 18 . The Mkmorablc Twentieth Ma if ! (A. tribute of gratitude to our venerated Chaplain, Kev. George L. LvMoiNE, who, on the occasion commemorntud in the following liaeSy perilled his life to save the church from being destroyed oy fire.) It was the evening hour, — a cloudless sky ; — The moon had wheei'd her silver orb on high Whh one attendant star : — the others, veiled. Stood at a distance, or on ether paled. The city's din had ceased, — ho sound of care. For Night was stilling, with her dreamy air, Earth's joys and sorrows ; hushing all to rett — E'en as a mother, clasping to her breast Her wearied infant, lulls it to repose. — Around the Convent, too, the shadows close ; Light hearts are slumbering at this early hour ; Of youth and innocence sleep is the dower, — — — But whence that sudden glare, as noon-d;iy bright ? Is'* some volcano bursting on the night ? Hark I now the toosin sounds — the city wakes To view tiij wreathing flames, tossing on high, And casting wide a storm of angry flakes, That fall, like meteors, on the mansions nigh — 1*1 ^- Ilk 1^^ ( 76 Built as ol liiider. — Seo ! the flames are driven Like fierce tornaclo; — onward Rtill they oorne, And now ;— but, oh ! forbid it gracious Heaven I They reach the church ! they near our cloistered Home : All, all is threatened ! " Help I ye Angels strong ! Heavenly Protectors, who have watched us long. — Mary, dear Mother ! oh ! protect thy shrine ; Say, shall il perish ?— Perish, — when 'tis thine ? " Hark ! from the streets, the cry that rends the air ; " Save, save the chapel I Firemen, haste ! *li8 there— 'Tis even there, the fire ! — direct your aim ! '* But firemen, can they rush into the flame ? 'Tis on them, like a sea, whose waves devour ! On, on it rolls ! Oh I un propitious hour ! Who then shall do the deed, with danger rife — To save the Convent, who peril his life ? ■ Ah ! he was there ! that generous, daring Friend- Into the furnace flames that round him spend Their rage, he rushes ! nerv'd with purpose high, To save that sacred lane, or with il die ! There waged ho conflict dire — yet, hap'ly, brief, — For now appear, eager to bear relief, A host of citizens,— of friends nioM true, — A venerable prelate, clergy, loo ! A shout goes up — *' That church must not burn down ; " And hundreds join him, battlin;:^ there alone. " Haste to the rescue I " Some the chapel wall Ascend with ladders, till their axes fall Upon the cindered roof — others, within, Bear succor where most needed, — while the din Of crashing timbers, hissing flames, and cries Of eager cheering from that crowd arine ; JSlill fierce the rival elements contend, Anil fur the mastery their r?ige expend. . 'l! 77 nl red Home : 3ng! e? » air; i tli«re— • r ing Fiifiml- ef, — n down ; '* II in But where are they, and say in what affright, The inmates of the cloister on this night ? Would ye behold them?— calmness still is theirs ; They're aiding, too, — oh ! with what ardent prayers Before the ahar, see them prostrate now — The mother ppeaks for all the solemn vow : — " Protect thine own, O Lord I — in Joseph's name We corne, secure, Thy gracious aid to claim !" And strong from anxious hearts went up the prayer Of faith to heaven, — the prayer of thousands there, liut see, the flames retire ! — It is the breath Of Him who, in that night-wind's veering, saith Unto that sea of fire : " Here be thou stayed. Enough the ruin Ihy red waves hath made." Now from the crowd went up the joyous cry : " The danger's o'er I — Virgins ye need not fly Your cloistered Home ! " — ~ ■' ' ' They look, and with amaze ; — " The danger's o'er! — 1 o God be all the praise !" Ursuline Convent, Quebec. May 21, 1864. X. Kleot, written in a Country Church-yard. The curfewl tolls the knell of parting day. The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea2, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinkling^ lu'l the distant folds. 1 curfew, a bell riinq^ in the evening; it was anciently the signal for extinguishing fires. 2 /ea, n field. • 78 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The mopin(j^ owl does to the moon complain Of such ail, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-treo's shade, Where heaves ihe turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of inoense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed. The cock's shrill clarions, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed* For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, . Or busy house-wife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle4 yield. Their furrow^ oft the stubborn glebe6 has broke ; How jocund? did they drive their team a-field ! How bow'd the woods beneath iheir sturdy stroke t Let not Ambition mock their ^iseful toil. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure : Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. 3 clarion, a kind of trumpet ; here, a sound like that of the trumftet. 4 ticlde, a hook with which corn is cut. b furrow, the track of the plough. 6 glehe, the earth. 1 jocund, merry. ■ i[ ■- 79 ap, d, The boast of heraldv^) the pomp of power^ And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave. Await alike the inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud ! impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophiesd raise, Where through the long-drawn aislelO and fretted' 1 vaull'2, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urnl3 or animated bustH Back to its mansion call the fleetinglS breath ? Can Honour's voice provokelS the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pre^-nant with celestial fire ; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll ; Chill PenuryH repress'd their noble rage'S, And froze the genial current of the soul. e! he trumpet. 8 toast of heraldry, pride of family. 9 trophies t memorials of triumph. 10 aM/«, the passage of a church. 11 fretted, adorned with raised work. 13 vauft, here, a vaulted roof. 13 storied urn. an urn with inscription. 14 animated bust, a bust so admirably carved that it seems like lite. \b fleeting, departing quickly. \Q provoke, arouse. 1 7 penury, poverty. 18 rage, any s'rong pasiaion 80 Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village HampdeniS, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise. To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine^ of Luxury and Pride, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life. They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect. Some frail memorial still erected nigh. With uncouthSl rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd. Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 19 Hampden, a celebrated member of parliament in Uie reign of Charles I. 20 akrhie, repository of anything sacred. 21 uncouth, inelegant. fJ ifl Hi it u ' "1 (( it 81 treast od. led ; Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetiulness a prey. This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, — Left the warm precints of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast th? parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate : If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate ; Haply some hoary-headed swain22 may say, " Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn. Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, " To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. it feck'd. the retgn of ** There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, ** That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, " His listless length at noon-tide woulil he stretch, ** And pore upon the brook that babbles by. ** Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, " Muttering hi.s wayward fancies, he would rove ! " Now drooping, woful wan ! like one forlorn, " Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 22 twain, a rustic, a countryman. 82 " One morn I miss'd him on th' accuslom'd hill, " Along the heath, and near his favourite tree ; " Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, " Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he ; " The next, with dirgesSS due in sad array,- « Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne " Approach and read (for thou canst read) the Jay " Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thom24." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; He gave to misery all he had — a tear ; He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. I! No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. Gray. 23 ^e«, funeral songs. 24 In the poem, as origiaally written, the following beautiful stanza preceded the Epitaph ; There, scatterM olt, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are show'r^ of violets fouud, The red-breast loves to bihld and warble there. And little footsteps lightly print the ground. it was afterwards omitted, because it seemed too long a parenthesis. 1 2 grin 83 im borne : ' » riend. Gray. itiful stanza The Hermit. Par in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend Hermit grew ; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well : Remote from men, with God he passed his days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose ; That Vice should triumph, Virtue Vice obey, This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway j His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost : So when a smooth expanse receives imprest Calm nature's image on its watery breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, And skies beneath with answering colours glow ; But if a stone the gentle sea divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, To find if books or swains repuU ii right, (For yet by swainsl alone the v.'orld he knew, Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew,) He quits his cell ; the pilgrim staff he bore. And fixed the scallop^ in ins hat before ; Then with the sun a rising journey went. Sedate to think, and watching each event.* The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; id. irenthesis. 1 Swains — peasants. 2 Scailop. The scallop-shell was worn anciently in the hat by pil- Ifrims. u But when the southern sun had warmed the day, A youih came posting o'er a crossing way ; His raiment decent, his complexion fair. And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. Then near approaching, " Father, hail ! " he cried. And, " Hail, my son ! " the reverend Sire replied ; Words followed words, from question answer flowed, And talk of various kinds deceived the road ; Till with each other pleased and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; Natu.e in silence bid the world repose j When near the rr'\d a stately palace rose ; There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass. Whose verdure crowned their eloping sides of grass. It chanced the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wandering stranger's home : Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise. Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair arrive : the liveried servants wait ; Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. The table groans with costly piles of food. And all is more than hospitably good. Then led to rest, the days long toil they drown, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and beds of down. At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day, Along the wide canals the zephyrs3 play : Fresh o'er the gay parterres^ the breezes creep, And shake the neighbouring wood, to banish sleep. 3 ZepA/ra— gentle breezes, literally western winds. 4 Part«rrM— level plots of ground planted with shrubs and flowers. I T So Th He Muri 1'hat WH ^hecj "A SOUil And be ^arnec To seek Twas t ^nd stroj ^'s owne; VtiUnd aj -^8 near fierce rki A^d o'er th ^"ven by t] X^^^gth so, 85 jass, 186. Up rise the guests, obedient to the ca!] : An early banqtiet decked the splendid hall j Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. Then pleased and thankful from the porch they go : And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe ; His cup was vanished ; for in secret guise The younger guest purloined the glittering prize. As one who spies a serpent in his way, Glistening and basking in the summer ray, Disordered stops to shun *he danger near. Then walks with faintness on, and looks 'with fear: So seemed the Sire ; when far upon the road. The shining ^^^oil his wily partner showed. He stopped wiiI silence, walked with trembling heart, And much he wished, but durst not ask to part ; Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard' That generous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds ; A sound in air presa^jed approaching rain. And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat. To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground, And strong, and large, and unimproved around ; Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; The nimble lightning mixed with showers began, And o'er their neads, loud rolling thunders ran. Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, Driven by the winds and battered by the rain. At length some pity warmed the master's breast, ('Twas then his threshold first received a guest ;) 86 Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shivering pair j One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, And nature's fervor through their limbs recalls. Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine, (Each hardly granted,) served them both to diijie j And when the tempest first appeared to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace. With still remark the pondering Hermit viewed, In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; And why should such, within himself he cried, Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? But what new marks of wonder soon take place, In every setting feature of his face, When from his vest the young,companion bore That cup the generous landlord owned before, And paid profusely with the precious bowl, The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; The sun emeiging opes an azure sky ; A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And glittering as they tremble, cheer the day ; The weather courts them from the poor retreat. And the glad master bolts the wary gate. While hence they walk, Ihe Pilgrim's bosom wrought With all the travel^ of uncertain thought : His partner's acts without their cause appear ; ^Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here : Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes. Lost and confounded with the various shows. Now night's liim Ghades again involve ihe sky, Again the wanderers want a place t(f lie ; 6 TVave/— labour, pain. 8rr jught Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. The soil improved around, the mansion neat, And neither poorly low, nor idly great : It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind ; Content, and not for praise but viitue kind. Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, Then bless the mansion, and the master greet : Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest guise, The courteous master hears, and thus replies : " Without a vain, without a grudging heart, To Him who gives us all, I yield a part ; From Him you come, for Him accept it here, A frank and sober, more than costly cheer.'* He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread : They talk of virtue till the time of bed, When the grave household round the hall repair, Warned by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. At length the world, renewed by calm repose, Was strong for toil, the dappled mom arose ; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, And writhed his neck : iho landlord's little pride — O strange return ! — grew black, and gasped, and died. Horror of horrors I what ! his only son I How looked our Hermit when the fact was done ? Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed. His steps the youih pursues : the country lay Perplexed with roads, a seivant showed the way : A river crossed the path ; the passage o'er Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied. And denp the waves beneath the bending glide. 88 The yuuth, who seemed to watch a time to s'lUy Approached the careless guide and thrust him in : Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes. He bursts the bonds of fear, and madly cries, « Detested wretch ! '* — But scarce his speech began. When the strange partner seemed no longer man : His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet ; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; Celestial odors breathe through purpled air ; And wings, whose colors glittered on the day, Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. Thci form ethereal bursts upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light Though loud at first the Pilgrim's passion grew, Sudden he gazed, and wist6 not what to do ; Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends. And in a calm his settling temper ends. But silence here the beauteous angel broke, (1 he voice of music ravished as he spoke :) " Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, In sweet memorial rise before the throne ; Those charms success in our bright regions find. And force an angel down to calm thy miud ; For this, commissioned, I forsook the sky ; Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. " Then know the truth of government divine. And let these scruples be no longer thine. " The Maker justly claims that world He made. In this the right of Providence is laid } Its sacred majesty through all depends On using second means to work His ends ; 6 Wtst — knew. 89 m, 'Tis jhuB, withdrawn in state from human eye, The Powe/ exerts his attributes on high 5 Your actions uses, nor controls your will, And bids the doubting sons of men be still. " What strange events can strike with more surprise, Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes ? Yet, taught by these, confess the Almigfify just, And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust ! " The great vain man, who lared on costly food, Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine ; Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. " The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolted door Ne*er moved in duty to the wandering poor ; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl. And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow. And loose from dross the silver runs below, " Long had our pious friend in virtue trod. But now the child half-weaned his heart from God: (Child of his age) for him he lived in pain. And measured back his steps to earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run ! But God, to save the father, took the son. To all but thee in fits ha seemed to go, (And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow :) The poor fond parent humbled in the dust, Now owns in teRrs the punishment was just. " Hut now had all his lorluuB felt n wiuck, Had that false servant sped in safely back j 90 This night his treasured heaps ha meant to ste.aly And what a fund of charity would fnil ! Thus heaven instructs ihy mind t. t'm trial o'er, Depart in peace, resign, and ^in no more." On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. Thus looked Elisha when, to mount on ' ,rh, His master took the chariot of the sky ; The fiery pomp ascending, left the view. The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. The bending Hermit here a prayer begun, ** Lord ! as in Heaven, on earth thy will be done : " Then gladly turning, sought his ancient place ; And passed a life of piety and peace. Parnell. -