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suffer, with the poignant recollection of taking the life of one who was too magnanimous in return to attempt his own.

Had he known this, it must have paralyzed his arm while he pointed, at so incorruptible a bosom, the instrument of death. Does he know this now, his heart, if it not be adamant, must soften-if it be not ice, it must melt. But on this article I forbear. Stained with blood as he is, if he be penitent, I forgive him—and if he be not, before these altars, where all of us appear as suppliants, I wish not to excite your vengeance, but rather, in behalf of an object rendered wretched and pitiable by crime, to wake your prayers.

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* Would to God I might

be permitted to approach for once the late scene of death. Would to God, I could there assemble on the one side the disconsolate mother with her seven fatherless children-and on the other those who administer the justice of my country. Could I do this, I would point them to these sad objects. I would entreat them by the agonies of bereaved fondness, to listen to the widow's heartfelt groans; to mark the orphan's sighs and tears—and having done this, I would uncover the breathless corpse of Hamilton-I would lift from his gaping wound his bloody mantle-I would hold it up to heaven before them, and I would ask, in the name of God, I would ask, whether at the sight of it they felt no compunction. Ye who have hearts of pity-ye who have experienced the anguish of dissolving friendship-who have wept, and still weep over the moldering ruins of departed kindred, ye can enter into this reflection.

O thou disconsolate widow! robbed, so cruelly robbed, and in so short a time, both of a husband and a son! what must be the plenitude of thy sufferings! Could we approach thee, gladly would we drop the tear of sympathy, and pour into thy bleeding bosom the balm of consolation. But how could we comfort her whom God hath not comforted! To his throne, let us lift up our voice and weep. O God! if thou art still the widow's husband, and the father of the fatherless -if, in the fullness of thy goodness, there be yet mercies in store for miserable mortals, pity, O pity this afflicted mother, and grant that her helpless orphans may find a friend, a benefactor, a father in Thee!

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Ex. XXXVII-THE WINDS.

YE winds, ye unseen currents of the air,
Softly ye played a few brief hours ago;

W. C. BRYANT.

Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the hair
O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow;
Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue
Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew;
Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew,

Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow.

How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound;
Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might;
The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground;
The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight.
The clouds before you shoot like eagles past;
The homes of men are rocking in your blast;
Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast,
Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight.

The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain,
To 'scape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead.
Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain;

The harvest field becomes a river's bed;
And torrents tumble from the hills around;
Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned;
And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound,
Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread.

Ye dart upon the deep; and straight is heard
A wilder roar; and men grow pale, and pray:

Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird

Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray. See! to the breaking mast the sailor clings;

Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs,

And take the mountain billow on your wings,
And pile the wreck of navies round the bay.

Why rage ye thus ?-no strife for liberty

Has made you mad; no tyrant, strong through fear, Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free, And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere:

For ye were born in freedom where ус

blow;

Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go;

Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow, Her isles where summer blossoms all the year.

O ye wild winds! a mightier Power than yours
In chains upon the shore of Europe lies;
The sceptered throng, whose fetters he endures,
Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes;
And arméd warriors all around him stand,
And, as he struggles, tighten every band,
And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand,
To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise.

Yet oh! when that wronged Spirit of our race,
Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn chains,
And leap in freedom from his prison-place,

Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains,
Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air,
To waste the loveliness that time could spare,
To fill the earth with woe, and blot her fair
Unconscious breast with blood from human veins!

But may he like the Spring-time come abroad,
Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might,
When in the genial breeze, the breath of God,

Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light;
Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet,
The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet,
And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet,
Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.

Ex. XXXVIII.—PASSING AWA Y.

MISS JEWSBURY

I ASKED the stars in the pomp of night,
Gilding its blackness with crowns of light,
Bright with beauty, and girt with power,
Whether eternity were not their dower;
And dirge-like music stole from their spheres,
Bearing this message to mortal ears:-

"We have no light that hath not been given;
We have no strength but shall soon be riven;
We have no power wherein man may trust;
Like him are we things of time and dust;
And the legend we blazon with beam and ray,
And the song of our silence, is-PASSING AWAY.'

"We shall fade in our beauty, the fair and bright,
Like lamps that have served for a festal night;
We shall fall from our spheres, the old and strong,
Like rose-leaves swept by the breeze along;
Though worshiped as gods in the olden day,
We shall be like a vain dream-PASSING AWAY.”

From the stars of heaven, and the flowers of earth,
From the pageant of power, and the voice of mirth,
From the mists of morn on the mountain's brow,
From childhood's song, and affection's vow,-
From all, save that o'er which soul bears sway,
Breathes but one record-“PASSING AWAY.”

"Passing away," sing the breeze and rill,
As they sweep in their course by vale and hill;
Through the varying scenes of each earthly clime
'Tis the lesson of nature, the voice of time;
And man at last, like his fathers gray,
Writes in his own dust-"PASSING AWAY."

Ex. XXXIX.-THE DUEL.

IN Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray,

Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mister Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,

By all it was allowed,

Such fair "outside "* was never seen,—

An angel on a cloud.

HOOD.

* Alluding to the English practice of females riding on the outside of stage coaches

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,

"You choose to rival me,

And court Miss Bell; but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.

"Unless you now give up your suit,

You may repent your love ;-
I, who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.

66 So, pray, before you woo her more,
Consider what you do:
If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,—
I'll pop it into you."

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,
"Your threats I do explode;-
One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.

"And so I say to you, unless
Your passion quiet keeps,

I, who have shot and hit bulls eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep's !"

Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red;
But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.

But first they found a friend apiece,
This pleasant thought to give-

That when they both were dead, they 'd have
Two seconds yet to live.

To measure out the ground, not long

The seconds next forbore;

And having taken one rash step,

They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol pan,
Against the deadly strife;

By putting in the prime of death,
Against the prime of life.

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