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674. Loss OF NATIONAL CHARACTER. The loss of a firm, national character, or the degradation of a nation's honor, is the inevitable prelude to her destruction. Behold the once proud fabric of the Roman empire; an empire, carrying its arts, and arms, into every part of the eastern continent; the monarchs of mighty kingdoms, dragged at the wheels of her triumphal chariots; her eagle, waving over the ruins of desolated countries. Where is her splendor, her wealth, her power, her glory? Extinguished-forever. Her moldering temples, the mournful vestiges of her former grandeur, afford a shelter to her muttering monks. Where are her statesmen, her sages, her philosophers, her orators, her generals? Go to their solitary tombs, and inquire. She lost her national character, and her destruction followed. The ramparts of her national pride were broken down, and Vandalism desolated her classic fields.

Citizens will lose their respect and confidence, in our government, if it does not extend over them, the shield of an honorable, national character. Corruption will creep in, | and sharpen party animosity. Ambitious leaders will seize upon the favorable moment. The mad enthusiasm for revolution-will call into action the irritated spirit of our nation, and civil war must follow. The swords of our countrymen may yet glitter on our mountains, their blood may yet crimson our plains.

675. GOOD-NIGHT.
Good-night-to all the world! there's none,
Beneath the "over-going" sun,

To whom, I feel, or hate, or spite,
And so to all--a fair good night.
Would I could say, good-night to pain,
Good-night to evil and her train,
To cheerless poverty, and shame,
That I am yet unknown to fame!
Would I could say, good-night to dreams,
That haunt me with delusive gleams,
That through the sable future's vail,
Like meteors, glimmer, but to fail.
Would I could say, a long good-night,
To halting, between wrong, and right,
And, like a giant, with new force,
Awake, prepared to run my course!
But time o'er good and ill sweeps on,
And when few years have come, and gone,
The past-will be to me as naught,
Whether remembered, or forgot.
Yet, let me hope, one faithful friend,
O'er my last couch, in tears shall bend;
And, though no day for me was bright,
Shall bid me then, a long good-night.

Athens, during a public representation of RESPECT TO OLD AGE. It happened at Such, the warning voice of all antiquity, the wealth, that an old gentleman came too late, some play, exhibited in honor of the commonexample of all republics proclaim-may be for a place suitable to his age, and quality. our fate. But let us no longer indulge these Many of the young gentlemen, who observed gloomy anticipations. The commencement the difficulty and confusion he was in, made of our liberty presages the dawn of a brighter signs to him, that they would accommodate period to the world. That bold, enterprising him, if he came where they sat. The good spirit, which conducted our heroes to peace; man bustled through the crowd accordingly; and safety, and gave us a lofty rank, amid but when he came to the seat, to which he the empires of the world, still animates the bosoms of their descendants. Look back to was invited, the jest was, to sit close, and exthe moment, when they unbarred the dun-pose him, as he stood out of countenance, to geons of the slave, and dashed his fetters all the Athenian benches. But, on those octhe whole audience. The frolic went round to the earth, when the sword of a Washing-casions, there were also particular places reton leaped from its scabbard, to revenge the served for foreigners. When the good man slaughter of our countrymen. Place their skulked towards the boxes, appointed for the example before you. Let the sparks of Lacedemonians, that honest people, more virtheir veteran wisdom flash across your minds, and the sacred altars of your liber- with the greatest respect, received him among tuous than polite, rose up all to a man, and ty, crowned with immortal honors, rise be- them. The Athenians, being suddenly touchfore you. Relying on the virtue, the cour-ed with a sense of the Spartan virtue, and age, the patriotism, and the strength of our their own degeneracy, gave a thunder of apcountry, we may expect our national charac-plause; and the old man cried out, "the Atheter will become more energetic, our citizens nians understand what is good, but the Lacemore enlightened, and may hail the age as demonians practice it. not far distant, when will be heard, as the proudest exclamation of man: I am an American.-Maxcy.

[flood?

The bell strikes one: We take no note of time,
But from its loss. To give it then a tongue,
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours:
Where are they? with the years beyond the
It is the signal that demands despatch;
How much is to be done! my hopes and fears
Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down-on what? a fathomless abyss;
A dread eternity! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Reason gains all men, by compelling none.

FORTUNE-TELLER.

A hungry, lean-fac'd villain,
A mere anatomy, a mountebank,

A thread-bare juggler, and a fortune teller;
A needy, hollow-eye'd, sharp looking wretch,
A living dead man: this pernicious slave,
Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer;
And gazing in my eyes, feeling my pulse,
And with no face, as 'twere outfacing me,
Cries out, I was possess'd.-Shakspeare."

RECREATION.

Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue,
But moody and dull melancholy,
(Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair;)
And at her heels, a huge infectious troop
Of pale distemperatures, and foes to life}

676. THE GROVES GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES. The groves were God's first temples. Ere man To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, [learned And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather, and roll back, The sound of anthems,-in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offered, to the Mightiest, solemn thanks, And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences, That, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heav'n, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath, that swayed, at once, All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit-with the thought of boundless Power, And inaccessible Majesty. Ah! why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore, Only, among the crowd, and under roofs,

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
An emanation of the indwelling Life,
A visible token-of the upholding Love,
That are, the soul of this wide universe.

My heart-is awed within me, when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round ine-the perpetual work
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed-
Forever. Written on thy works, I read
The lesson of thy own eternity.

Lo! all grow old, and die: but see, again,
How, on the faltering footsteps of decay,
Youth presses-ever gay, and beautiful youth--
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly, that their ancestors
Moulder, beneath them. Oh! there is not lost
One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
After the flight of untold centuries,

The freshness of her far beginning lies,
And yet shall lie. Life-mocks the idle hate

That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, Of his arch enemy-Death; yea, seats himself

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn; thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in his ear.

Father, thy hand

Hath reared these venerable columns; thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heav'n. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old, and died, Among their branches; till, at last, they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and darkFit shrine-for humble worshiper to hold Communion with his Maker. Here are seen, No traces of man's pomp, or pride; no silks Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes Encounter; no fantastic carvings-show The boast of our vain race-to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here; thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds, That run along the summits of these trees, In music; thou art in the cooler breath, That, from the inmost darkness of the place, Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here, is continual worship; nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades, Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oakBy whose immovable stem I stand, and seem Almost annihilated-not a prince, In all the proud old world, beyond the deep, F'er wore his crown-as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves, with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest-flower, With scented breath, and look, so like a smile,

Upon the sepulchre, and blooms, and smiles,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe,
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

There have heen holy men, who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
Their lives to thought, and prayer, till they outlived
The generation, born with them, nor seemed
Less aged, than the hoary trees, and rocks,
Around them; and there have been holy men,
Who deemed it were not well-to pass life thus.
But let me, often, to these solitudes
Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure
My feeble virtue. Here, its enemies,
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps, shrink,
And tremble, and are still.

O God! when thou
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire
The heavens, with falling thunderbolts, or fill,
With all the waters of the firmament,

The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods,
And drowns the villages; when, at thy call,
Uprises the great deep, and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities;-who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes, and follies by!
Oh! from the sterner aspects of thy face
Spare me, and mine; nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad, unchained elements, to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,
And to the beautiful order of thy works,
Learn to conform the order of our lives.-Bryant.

Naturally, men are prone to spin themselves a web of opinions out of their own brain, and to have a religion that may be called their own. Men are far readier to make themselves a faith, than to receive that which God hath formed to their hands, and they are far readier to receive a doctrine that tends to their carnal commodity, or honor, or delights, than one that tends to self-denial.

Like dogs in a wheel, birds in a cage, or squir rels in a chain, ambitious men still elimb and climb, with great labor, and incessant anxiety, but never reach the top.

677. PHYSICAL EDUCATION. That is, undoubtedly, the wisest, and best regimen, which takes the infant from the cradle, and conducts him along, through childhood, and youth, up to high maturity, in such a manner, as to give strength to his arm, swiftness to his feet, solidity and amplitude to his muscles, symmetry to his frame, and expansion to his vital energies. It is obvious, that this branch of education comprehends, not only food and clothing, but air, exercise, lodging, early rising, and whatever else is requisite, to the full development of the physical constitution. The diet must be simple, the apparel must not be too warm, nor the bed too soft.

Tossed his beamed fontlet-to the sky;
A moment-gazed--adown the dale,
A moment--snuffed the tainted gale,
A moment, listened to the cry,
That thickened-as the chase drew nigh;
Then, as the headmost foes appeared,
With one brave bound-the copse he cleared,
And, stretching forward, free, and far,
Sought the wild heaths-of Uam-Var.-Scott.
678. MODULATION.

Tis not enough-the voice be sound, and clear,
"Tis modulation, that must charm the ear.

Let parents beware of too much restriction When desperate heroes grieve, with tedious moan, in the management of their darling boy. Let And whine their sorrows, in a see-saw tone, him, in choosing his play, follow the sugges-The same soft sounds-of unimpassioned woes, tions of nature. Let them not be discompos- Can only make the yawning hearers--doze. ed at the sight of his sand-hills in the road, The voice-all modes of passion can express, his snow-forts in February, and his mud-dams That marks the proper word, with proper stress: in April; nor when they chance to look out But none emphatic--can that speaker call, in the midst of an August shower, and see him wading and sailing, and sporting along Who lays an equal emphasis-on all. with the water-fowl. If they would make Some, o'er the tongue-the labored measures roll, him hardy and fearless, they must let him go Slow, and deliberate--as the parting toll; abroad as often as he pleases, in his early Point every stop, mark every pause so strong, boyhood, and amuse himself by the hour to- Their words, like stage processions, stalk along, gether, in smoothing and twirling the hoary locks of winter. Instead of keeping him All affectation-but creates disgust; shut up all day with a stove, and graduating And e'en in speaking, we may seem too just. his sleeping-room by Fahrenheit, they must In vain, for them, the pleasing measure flows, let him face the keen edge of a north-wind, Whose recitation-runs it all to prose; when the mercury is below cipher; and, in- Repeating-what the poet sets not down, stead of minding a little shivering, and com- The verse disjointing-from its favorite noun, plaining, when he returns, cheer up his spir- While pause, and break, and repetition join its, and send him out again. In this way, they will teach him, that he was not born to To make a discord-in each tuneful line. live in the nursery, nor to brood over the fire; Some placid natures-fill the allotted scene but to range abroad, as free as the snow, the air, and to gain warmth from exercise. and With lifeless drawls, insipid and serene; I love, and admire the youth, who turns While others-thunder every couplet o'er, not back from the howling wintry blast, nor And almost crack your ears-with rant, and roar. withers under the blaze of summer; who More nature, oft, and finer strokes are shown, never magnifies "mole-hills into mountains;" In the low whisper, than tempestuous tone; but whose daring eye, exulting, scales the ca- And Hamlet's hollow voice, and fixed amaze, gle's airy crag, and who is ready to under- More powerful terror-to the mind conveys, take anything, that is prudent, and lawful, Than he, who, swollen with impetuous rage, within the range of possibility. Who would Bullies the bulky phantom of the stage. think of planting the mountain-oak-in a green-house? or of rearing the cedar of Leb- He, who, in earnest, studies o'er his part, anon-in a lady's flower-pot? Who does Will find true nature-cling about his heart. not know that, in order to attain their mighty The modes of grief--are not included allstrength, and majestic forms, they must free- In the white handkerchief, and mournful drawl; ly enjoy the rain, and the sunshine, and must A single look-more marks the internal woe, feel the rocking of the tempest? Than all the windings of the lengthened-Oh! Up to the face-the quick sensation flies, And darts its meaning-from the speaking eyes: Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair, And all the passions, all the soul is there.

THE CHASE.

The stag, at eve, had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon, on Monan's rill,
And deep-his midnight lair had made,
In lone Glenartney's hazel shade;
But, when the sun-his beacon red
Had kindled, on Benvoirlich's head,
The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay
Resounded up the rocky way,
And faint from farther distance borne,
Were heard the clanging hoof, and horn.
As chief, who hears his warder call,
"To arms! the foeman storm the wall,"
The antlered monarch of the waste-
Sprung from his heathery couch, in haste.
But, ere his fleet career he took,
The dew-drops, from his flanks, he shook:
Like crested leader, proud, and high,

NATURE'S WANTS ARE FEW.
Man's rich with little, were his judgment true;
Nature is frugal, and her wants are few;
Those few wants answered, bring sincere delights,
But fools create themselves new appetites.
Fancy and pride seek things at vast expense,
Which relish nor to treason nor to sense.
When surfeit or unthankfulness destroys,
In nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys,
In fancy's airy land of noise and show,
Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures grow,
Like cats in air-pumps, to subsist we strive,
On joys too thin to keep the soul alive.-Young.

[graphic]

680. THE FIRE-SIDE.

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance;
Tho' singularity, and pride,

Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world, w'ell oft retire,
To our own family and fire,

Where love-our hours employs;
No noisy neighbor--enters here,
No intermeddling stranger-near,
To spoil our heart-felt joys.
If solid happiness-we prize,
Within our breast-this jewel lies;
And they are fools, who roam:
The world-has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves-our joys must flow,
And that dear hut, our home.
Of rest, was Noah's dove bereft,
When, with impatient wing she left
That safe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursion o'er,
The disappointed bird, once more
Explor'd the sacred bark.

Tho' fools--spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, We, who improve his golden hours,

Our babes, shall richest comfort bring;
If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rise:
We'll form their minds, with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,

And train them for the skies.
While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,

And crown our hoary hairs:
They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day,
And thus, our fondest loves repay,

And recompense our cares.

No borrow'd joys! they're all our own,
While, to the world, we live unknown,
Or, by the world forgot;
Monarchs we envy not your state;
We look with pity-on the great,

And bless our humbler lot.
Our portion is not large, indeed!
But then, how little do we need!

For nature's calls are few:

In this, the art of living lies,
To want no more, that may suffice,

And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish, with content,
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,

Nor aim beyond our pow'r;
For if our stock be very small,
"Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lose the present hour.
To be resign'd, when ills betide,
Patient, when favors are denied,

And pleas'd, with favors giv'n:
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part;
This is that incense of the heart,

Whose fragrance-smells to heav'n.
We'll ask no long protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet;
But, when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,
Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.

Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go;
Its checker'd paths of joy and wo,

With cautious steps, we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes, without a tear,
Without a trouble, or a fear,
And mingle with the dead.
While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall, thro' the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper-peace,

And smooth the hed of death.-Cotton. Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crown'd;

Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round:
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale;
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale:
For me your tributary stores combine:
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine.

681. THE NATURE OF ELOQUENCE. When public bodies are to be addressed, on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, farther than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain.

Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it, but cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force.

The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory, contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked, and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities.

Then, patriotism is eloquent; then, selfdevotion is eloquent. The clear conception, out-running the deductions of logic, the high purpose, of firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object,-this-is eloquence.-Webster.

682. THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE.

I said to Sorrow's awful storm,
That beat against my breast,
"Rage on! thou may'st destroy this form,
And lay it low-at rest;

But still-the spirit that now brooks
Thy tempest, raging high,
Undaunted, on its fury looks-

With steadfast eye."

I said to Penury's meagre train,
"Come on! your threats I brave;
My last, poor life-drop--you may drain,
And crush me-to the grave;
Yet still, the spirit, that endures,
Shall mark your force-the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours,
With bitter smile."

I said-to cold Neglect, and Scorn,
"Pass on! I heed you not;

Ye may pursue me, till my form,

And being-are forgot;

Yet, still the spirit, which you see
Undaunted by your wiles,
Draws from its own nobility

Its high-born smiles."

I said--to Friendship's menaced blow,
"Strike deep! my heart shall bear;
Thou canst but add-one bitter wo
To those already there;
Yet stili-the spirit, that sustains

This last severe distress,

Shall smile-upon its keenest pains,
And scorn redress."

I said to Death's uplifted dart,
"Aim sure! oh, why delay?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart,

A weak, reluctant prey;
For still-the spirit, firm, and free,
Triumphant-in the last dismay,
Wrapt-in its own eternity,

Shall, smiling, pass away," 683. PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. 'Mid the light spray, their snorting camels stood, Nor bath'd a fetlock, in the nauseous flood: He comes-their leader comes! the man of God,

O'er the wide waters, lifts his mighty rod,
And onward treads. The circling waves retreat,
In hoarse, deep murmurs, from his holy feet;
And the chas'd surges, inly roaring, show
The hard wet sand, and coral hills below.

With limbs, that falter, and with hearts, that swell,
Down, down they pass-a steep, and slippery dell.
Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurl'd,
The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world;
And flowers, that blush beneath the ocean green,
And caves, the sea-calyes' low-roof'd haunts, are
Down,safelydown the narrow pass they tread;[seen.
The beetling waters-storm above their head;
While far behind, retires the sinking day,
And fades on Edom's hills, its latest ray.
Yet not from Israel-fled the friendly light,
Or dark to them, or cheerless came the night;
Still, in their van, along that dreadful road, [God.
Blaz'd broad and fierce, the brandish'd torch of
Its meteor glare-a tenfold lustre gave,

On the long mirror-of the rosy wave:
While its blest beams-a sunlike heat supply,
Warm every cheek, and dance in every eye.
To them alone-for Misraim's wizard train
Invoke, for light, their monster-gods in vain :
Clouds heap'd on clouds, their struggling sight con-
And tenfold darkness broods above their line. [fine,
Yet on they press, by reckless vengeance led,
And range, unconscious, through the ocean's bed,
Till midway now-that strange, and fiery form,
Show'd his dread visage, lightning through the

storm;

With withering splendor, blasted all their might, And brake their chariot-wheels, and marred their

coursers' flight.

"Fly, Misraim, fly!" The ravenous floods they see,
And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity.
"Fly, Misraim, fly!" From Edom's coral strand,
Again the prophet stretch'd his dreadful wand:
With one wild crash, the thundering waters sweep,
And all-is waves-a dark, and lonely deep:-
Yet, o'er these lonely waves, such murmurs past,
As mortal wailing swell'd the nightly blast:
And strange, and sad, the whispering breezes bore
The groans of Egypt-to Arabia's shore.-Heber.

CONCEALED LOVE.

She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought,
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.

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