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all the other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by dānger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will săcrifice
every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity :-and, if adversity overtake him, he will be the dearer to her by misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him; and, if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him.
Poor George Somers had known well what it was to be in sickness, and have none to sooth--lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his sight; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her venerable form bending over him; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died.
My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction, was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do every thing that the case admitted; and as the poor know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude.
The next Sunday I was at the village church; when, to my surprise, I saw the old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar.
She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for her son; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty: a black riband* or so faded black handkerchief, and one or two more such humble attempts to express by outward signs that grief which passes show. When I looked round upon the storied monuments; the stately hatchments; the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride; and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her last, and gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never parted.
* Pron. rib-bin.
The American Republic.--BYRON. The name of Commonwealth is past and gone,
Over three fractions of the groaning globe :Venice is crushed, and Holland deigns to own
A sceptre, and endures a purple robe : If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time; For tyranny of late has cunning grown, And, in its own good season, tramples down The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, , Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean Are kept apart, and nursed in the devotion Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Bequeathed-a heritage of heart and hand, And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Full of the magic of exploded scienceStill one great clime, in full and free defiance, Yet rears her crest, unconquered and sublime, Above the far Atlantic! She has taught Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, May strike to those whose red right hands have bought Rights cheaply earned with blood. Still, still, for ever Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, That it should flow, and overflow, than creep Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Dammed, like the dull canal, with locks and chains,
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,
An Evening Sketch.-BLACKWOOD's MAGAZINE.
The birds have ceased their song, All, save the black cap, that, amid the boughs Of
yon tall ash tree, from his mellow throat, In adoration of the setting sun, Chants forth his evening hymn.
'Tis twilight now;
The sea is waveless, as a lake ingulf’d
With bosoming branches round, yon village hangs ::
THERE is an even tide" in the year,-a season, as we now witness, when the sun withdraws his propitious light,when the winds arise, and the leaves fall, and nature around us seems to sink into decay. It is said, in general, to be the season of melancholy; and if, by this word, be meant that it is the time of solemn and of serious thought, it is undoubtedly the season of melancholy ;-yet, it is a melancholy so soothing, so gentle in its approach, and so prophetic in its influence, that they, who have known it, feel, as if instinctively, that it is the doing of God, and that the heart of man is not thus finely touched, but to fine issues.
1. It is a season, which tends to wean us from the passions of the world. Every passion, however base or unworthy, is yet eloquent. It speaks to us of present enjoyment ; it tells us of what men have done, and what men may do, and it supports us every where by the example of many around us. When we go out into the fields in the even.
ing of the year, a different voice approaches us. gard, even in spite of ourselves, the still but steady advances of time,
A few days ago, and the summer of the year was grateful, and every element was filled with life, and the sun of Heaven seemed to glory in his ascendant. He is now enfeebled in his power; the desert no more blossoms like the rose;" the song of joy is no more heard among the branches ; and the earth is strewed* with that foliage which once bespoke the magnificence of summer. be the passions which society has awakened, we pause, amid this appārent desolation of nature. We sit down in the lodge “of the way-faring man in the wilderness," and we feel that all we witness is the emblem of our own fate. Such also, in a few years, will be our own condition. The blossoms of our spring,—the pride of our summer will also fade into decay ;--and the pulse that now beats high with virtuous or with vicious desire, will gradually sink, and then must stop forever.
We rise from our meditations with hearts softened and subdued, and we return into life as into a shadowy scene, where we have “disquieted ourselves in vain.” Such is the first impression which the present scene of nature is fitted to make upon us. It is this first impression which intimidates the thoughtless and the gay ; and, indeed, if there were no other reflections that followed, I know not that it would be the business of wisdom to recommend such meditations. It is the consequences, however, of such previous thoughts, which are chiefly valuable; and among these there are two which may well deserve our consideration.
2. It is the peculiar character of the melancholy which such seasons excite, that it is general. It is not an indivi. dual remonstrance ;-it is not the harsh language of human wisdom, which too often insults, while it instructs us. When the winds of autumn sigh around us, their voice speaks not to us only, but to our kind; and the lesson they teach us is not that we alone decay, but that such also is the fate of all the generations of man._ They are the green leaves of the tree of the desert, which perish and are renewed.”
In such a sentiment there is a kind of sublimity mingled with its melancholy ;-our tears fall, but they fall not for ourselves ;-and, although the train of our thoughts may have begun with the selfishness of our own concerns, we feel that, by the ministry of some mysterious power, they
* Pron. stróde.