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Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound
As of soft showers on water-dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still,
They seemed but pictured glooms--a hidden rill,
Made music such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern tufts; and a tender gleam,
Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs

And steep'd the magic page wherein I read
Of royal chivalry and old renown,
A tale of Palestine. Meanwhile the bee
Swept past me with a tone of summer hours,
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,
Blue skies, and amber sunshine brightly free,
On filmy wings the purple dragon fly
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by;

But e'er long
All sense of these things faded, as the spell
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale, grew strong
On my chained soul-t'was not the leaves I heard :
-A Lyrian wind the lion-banner stirr’d,
Through its proud floating folds—twas not the brook
Singing in secret through its grassy glen-
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen
Peal'd from the lonely desert's heart, and shook
The burning air.—Like clouds when winds are high
O’er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby,


And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear
Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear
Shadowed by graceful palm trees.
The bright masque faded—unto life's worn track.
What called me, from its flood of glory back?
A voice of happy childhood !_and they passed,
Banner and harp, and paynim trumpet's blast-
Yet might I scarce bewail the vision gone,
My heart so leapt to that sweet laughter's tone.




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Look at that


headed man, of three score and upwards, sitting by the way side! He was once an elder of a Kirk. One sabbath he entered that Kirk in a state of miserable abandonment, and from that day he was no longer an elder. His wife was a matron, almost in the prime of life, when she died; but as she kept wearing away to another world, her countenance of sorrow declared she had been too long an inhabitant of this. The family dropt down, one by one, out of sight, into inferior situations, while he, the infatuated sinner, remained in the chains of his tyrannical passion, nor seemed ever, for more than the short term of a day, to cease hugging them to his heart. Semblance of all that is most venerable in the character of Scotland's peasantry! Image of a perfect Patriarch,

walking out to meditate at even tide!. What a noble forehead! Features how high dignified and composed! There, sitting in the shade of that old way-side tree, he seems some religious Missionary, travelling to and fro over the face of the earth, seeking out sin and sorrow, that he may tame them, under the word of God, and change their very being into piety and peace. Call him not a hoáry hypocrite; for he cannot help that noble—that yenerable--that apostolic aspect—that dignified figure, as if bent gently by Time--loath to touch it with too heavy a hand,—that holy sprinkling over his furrowed temples, of the silver soft, and the snow white hair,-these are the gifts of gracious Nature, asl—and Nature will not reclaim them but in the tomb. That is Gabriel Mason---the drunkard! And in an hour you may, if your eyes can bear the sight, see and hear him, staggering up the village, cursing, swearing, preaching, praying,-stoned by blackguard boys, till, taking refuge in the smithy or the pot-house, he becomes the sport of clowns, and after much idiot laughter, ruefully mingled with sighs, and groans, and tears, he is suffered to mount upon a table, and there, like a wild Itinerant, he stammers forth unintentional blasphemy, till the liquor he has been allowed or instigated to swallow, smites him suddenly senseless, and falling down he is huddled into a corner of some lumber room to sleep,-better far, for one so pitiably miserable, were it to everlasting death!!






Suddenly before my eye A wall of fiery adamant sprung upWall mountainous, tremendous, flaming high Above all flight of hope. I paused, and looked ; And saw, where'er I looked upon that mound, Sad figures traced in fire—not motionlessBut imitating life. One I remarked Attentively; but how shall I describe What naught resembles else my eye hath seen? Of worm or serpent kind it something looked, But monstrous, with a thousand snaky heads, Eyed each with double orbs of glaring wrath; And with as many tails, that twisted out In horrid revolution, tipped with stings; And all its mouths, that wide and darkly gaped, And breathed most poisonous breath, had each a sting, Forked, and long, and venomous, and sharp; And in its writhings infinite, it grasped Malignantly what seem'd a heart, swollen, black, And quivering with torture most intense ; And still the heart, with anguish throbbing high, Made effort to escape, but could not; for Howe'er it turned, and oft it vainly turned, These complicated foldings held it fast. And still the monstrous beast with sting of head Or tail transpierced it, bleeding evermore. What this could image much I searched to know,

And while I stood, and gazed, and wondered long,
A voice, from whence I knew not, for no one
I saw, distinctly whispered in my ear
These words - This is the worm that never dies.

Fast by the side of this unsightly thing
Another was portrayed, more hideous still ;
Who sees it once shall wish to see't no more.
For ever undescribed let it remain!
Only this much I may or can unfold-
Far out it thrust a dart that might have made
The knees of terror quake, and on it hung,
Within the triple barbs, a being pierced
Thro' soul and body both: of heavenly make
Original the being seemed, but fallen
And worn and wasted with enormous wo.
And still around the everlasting lance
It writhed convulsed, and uttered mimic groans;
And tried and wished, and ever tried and wished
To die; but could not die!-Oh, horrid sight!
I trembling gazed, and listened, and heard this voice
Approach my ear--This is eternal Death.



If we compare Washington and Buonaparte, man to man, the genius of the former seems of a less eleva

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