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Which once were wont to wear a soldier's raiment,
And ashes on the head which ye of old

Did honour, when its helmed glories shone
Before you in the paths of battle.

Hear me,

Ye that, as I, adore the Law, the Prophets;
And at the ineffable thrice-holiest name

Bow down your awe-struck foreheads to the ground.
I am not here to tell you, men of Israel,
That it is madness to contend with Rome :
That it were wisdom to submit and follow
The common fortunes of the universe;

For ye would answer, that 'tis glorious madness
To stand alone amidst the enslaved world
Freedom's last desperate champions: ye would answer,
That the slave's wisdom to the free-born man
Is basest folly. Oh, my countrymen!
Before no earthly king do I command you
To fall subservient, not all-conquering Cæsar,
But in á mightier name I summon you,
The King of kings. He, He is manifest
In the dark visitation that is on you.
'Tis He, whose loosed and raging ministers,
Wild war, gaunt famine, leprous pestilence,
But execute his delegated wrath.

Yea, by the fulness of your crimes, 'tis He.

Alas! shall I weep o'er thee, or go down And grovel in the dust, and hide myself

From mine own shame? Oh, thou defiled Jerusalem ! That drinkest thine own blood as from a fountain; That hast piled up the fabric of thy guilt

To such portentous height, that earth is darkened

With its huge shadow-that dost boast the monuments
Of murdered prophets, and dost make the robes
Of God's high-priest a title and a claim
To bloodiest slaughter-thou that every day
Dost trample down the thunder-given Law,
Even with the pride and joy of him that treads
The purple vintage. And Oh, thou, our Temple!
That wert of old the Beauty of Holiness,
The chosen, unapproachable abode

Of Him which dwelt between the cherubim,
Thou art a charnel-house, and sepulchre

Of slaughtered men, a common butchery
Of civil strife; and hence proclaim I, brethren,
It is the LORD who doth avenge his own:
The Lord, who gives you over to the wicked,
That ye may perish by their wickedness.



UNHAPPY Whyte ! when life was in its spring,
And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing,
The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the Grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science 'self destroyed her favourite son!
Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sowed the seed, but death has reaped the fruit.
'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow,
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low :-
So the struck Eagle stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the winged dart,
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart:
Keen were his feelings, keener far to feel

He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel,
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

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OH Fortune! what avails thy smiles!
No smiles to Harold's cheek they bring,
Oh beauty! cease thy blandish wiles,
For Harold only feels the sting.

Oh Nature! why on him bestow
Gifts more than mortal minds adorn,
In vain for him thy roses blow,
For Harold only feels the thorn.
Oh Genius! why with rays divine
And magic power his soul illume,
In vain thy starry lamp may shine,
For Harold only feels its gloom.

Yet still one boon the "Childe" may claim,
A boon to mortals rarely given,
On earth to hear his deathless fame,
And feel at last a ray from Heaven.
Dear wayward "Childe," I read and weep,
And almost feel thy fancied woes;
Nay, e'en thy image, while I sleep,
Dwells in my dreams and breaks repose.
But dream not thou some woman fair
With snowy arms and eyes of blue,
Know, fifty summers o'er my hair
And on my cheek have blanched their hue.
Yet in my heart nor pain nor age

I feel, though both have marked my brow,
When gazing o'er thy witching page,
With pleasure never felt till now.

And wert thou, " Childe," a child of mine,
I'd soothe thee with a mother's love,

And pray not to the tuneful nine,
But to the blessed powers above.

That hope in Heaven, and peace on earth,
And social bliss may still be thine;
And feelings which from conscious worth,
Can raise the soul to joys divine.
Then, Harold, strike again the lyre,
And pour sublime the flood of song,
And let each chord the genius fire
As o'er its strings thou sweep'st along.
No gloomy thoughts of man's decay
Shall then thy spotless pages soil,
But wreathes unfaded crown my lay,
And fame immortal bless thy toil.



(Harley and his friends proceeded to that quarter of the melancholy mansion, which is appropriated to the insane of the softer sex, several of whom gathered about the female visitors, and examined the particulars of their dress.) SEPARATE from the rest stood a female, whose appearance had something of superior dignity. Her face, though pale and wasted, was less squalid than those of the others, and showed a dejection of that decent kind, which moves our pity unmixed with horror; upon her, therefore, the eyes of all were immediately turned. The keeper who accompanied them observed it: "This (said he) is a young lady, who was born to ride in her coach and six. She was beloved, if the story I have heard be true, by a young gentleman, her equal in birth, though by no means her match in fortune: but love, they say, is blind, and so she fancied him as much as he did her. Her father, it seems, would not hear of their marriage, and threatened to turn her out of doors, if ever she saw him again. Upon this, the young gentleman took a voyage to the West Indies, in hopes of bettering his fortune, and obtaining his mistress; but, he was scarcely landed when he was seized with one of the fevers which are common in those islands, and died in a few days, lamented by every one who knew him. This news soon reached his mistress, who was, at the same time, pressed by her father to marry a rich miserly fellow, who was old enough to be her grandfather. The death of her lover had no effect on her inhuman parent: he was only the more earnest for her marriage with the man he had provided for her; and, what between her despair at the death of the one, and her aversion to the other, the poor young lady was reduced to the condition you now see her in. But God would not prosper such cruelty; her father's affairs soon after went to wreck, and he died almost a beggar."

Though this story was told in very plain language, it had particularly attracted Harley's notice; he had given it the tri

* Henry Mackenzie, the amiable author of the "Man of Feeling," "La Roche," &c. &c., and for many years the ornament of the literary circles in Edinburgh, died in 1831, aged 86. Mackenzie has been called by some "the Addison of the North;" but his style, though more refined and chastened, is certainly more like that of Sterne.

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bute of some tears. The unfortunate young lady had till now seemed entranced in thought, with her eyes fixed on a little garnet ring she wore on her finger; she turned them now upon Harley. "My Billy is no more! said she, "do you weep for my Billy? Blessings on your tears! I would weep too, but my brain is dry; and it burns, it burns!". She drew nearer to Harley-"Be comforted, young lady," said he, your Billy is in Heaven."-" Is he indeed? and shall we meet again? and shall that frightful man (pointing to the keeper) not be there ?-Alas! I am grown naughty of late; I have almost forgotten to think of Heaven: yet I pray sometimes; when I can, I pray, and sometimes I sing; when I am saddest, I sing: You shall hear me, hush!—



Light be the earth on Billy's breast,

And green the sod that wraps his grave !"

There was a plaintive wildness in the air, not to be withstood; and, except the keeper's, there was not an unmoistened eye around her.

"Do you weep again?" said she; "I would not have you weep: you are like my Billy: you are, believe me; just so he looked when he gave me this ring: poor Billy! 'twas the last time we ever met,

'Twas when the seas were roaring.'


I love you for resembling my Billy; but I shall never love any man like him."-She stretched out her hand to Harley; he pressed it between both of his, and bathed it with his tears.-"Nay, that is Billy's ring," said she; "you cannot have it, indeed; but here is another, look here, which I plaited to-day of some gold thread from this bit of stuff; will you keep it for sake? I am a strange girl;—but my heart is harmless: my poor heart, it will burst some day; feel how it beats!"-She pressed his hand to her bosom, then, holding her head in the attitude of listening— "Hark! one, two, three! be quiet,, thou little trembler; my Billy is cold!—but I had forgotten the ring." She put it on his finger." Farewell! I must leave you now."-She would have withdrawn her hand; Harley held it to his lips-"I dare not stay longer," said she; "my head throbs sadly: farewell!"-She walked with a hurried step to a little apartment at some distance. Harley stood fixed in astonishment and pity; his friend gave money to the keeper.- Harley looked on his ring. He put a couple of guineas into the man's hand; "Be kind to that unfortunate," he said; and burst into tears.

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