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the faith which holds the moral elements of the world together, was no protection. He became at length so confident of his force, and so collected in his might, that he made no secret whatever, of his dreadful resolution. Having terminated his disputes with every enemy, and every rival, who buried their mutual animosities, in their common interest, against the creditors of the Nabob of Arcot; he drew from every quarter, whatever a savage ferocity could add to his new rudiments in the art of destruction; and compounding all the materials of fury, havoc, and desolation, into one black cloud; he hung for a while on the declivities of the mountains. Whilst the authors of all these evils were idly and stupidly gazing on this menacing meteor, which blackened all the horizon, it suddenly burst, and poured down the whole of its contents, upon the plains of the Carnatic. Then ensued a scene of wo; the like of which no eye had seen, nor heart conceived, and which no tongue can adequately tell. All the horrors of war before known or heard of, were mercy, to that new havoc. A storm of universal fire blasted every field, consumed every house, and destroyed every temple. The miserable inhabitants, flying from their flaming villages, in part, were slaughtered, others, without regard to ser, to age, to rank, or sacredness of function, fathers torn from children, husbands from wives, enveloped in a whirlwind of cavalry, and amidst the goading spears of drivers, and the trampling of pursuing horses, were swept into captivity, in an unknown and hostile land. Those who were able to evade this tempest, fled to the walled cities. But escaping from fire, sword, and exile, they fell into the jaws of famine.

For eighteen months, without intermission, this destruction raged from the gates of Madras to the gates of Tanjore, and so completely, did these masters in their art, Hyder Ali, and his more ferocious son, absolve themselves of their impious vow, that when the British armies traversed, as they did, the Carnatic, for hundreds of miles in all directions; through the whole

; line of their march, they did not see one man, not one woman, not one child, not one four footed beast, of any description whatever. One dead uniform silence reigned over the whole region.



Tir'd Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep!
He, like the world, his ready visit pays
Where Fortune smiles; the wretched, he forsakes;
Swift on he downy pinion flies from wo,
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.

From short, as usual, and disturb'd repose,
I wake: how happy they, who wake no more!
Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.
I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams
Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought
From wave to wave of fancy'd misery,
At random drove, her helm of reason lost.

Tho' now restored, 'tis only change of pain:
Abitter change! severer, for severe.

The day too short for my distress; and night,
Even in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is sunshine, to the colour of my fate.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.
Silence, how dead: and darkness, how profound !
Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds;
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause;
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophecy be soon fiulfill'd;
Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more.

Silence, and Darkness! solemn sisters ! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought To Reason, and on Reason build Resolve, That column of true majesty in man,

Assist me; I will thank you in the grave; The grave, your kingdom; there this frame shall fall A victim sacred, to your dreary shrine.



The twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast,
Ah! would that this might be the last,

My Mary.

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow,
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary.
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disus'd, and shine no more,

My Mary.
But well thou play'd'st the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art,
Have wound themselves around this heart,

My Mary.
Thy indistinct expressions seem,
Like language utter'd in a dream,
Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme,

My. Mary.
Thy silver locks once auburn bright;
Are still more lovely in my sight;
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary.
For could I see, nor them, nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary.
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign,
Yet gently press’d, press gently mine,

My Mary.

Such feebleness of limbs thou shew'st,
That now at every step, thou moy'st
Upheld by two, yet still thou lovost,

My Mary.
And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wintry age, to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary.
But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I shew,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo,

My Mary.

And should


future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn out heart will break at last,

My Mary.



When, in the course of haman events, it becomes necessary, for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station, to which the laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind, requires, that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

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