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Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound
But e'er long
chained soul-twas 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 glenA 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
ANATOMY OF DRUNKENNESS.
Look at that grey 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, all—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!!
REMORSE AND PUNISHMENT.
FROM POLLOK'S “ COURSE OF TIME."
Suddenly before my eye A wall of fiery adamant sprung upWall mountainous, tremendous, flaming high Above asl 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,
Fast by the side of this unsightly thing
BUONAPARTE AND WASHINGTON.
If we compare Washington and Buonaparte, man to man, the genius of the former seems of a less eleva