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Now here, now there, in vain he tried;
Some formally and freezingly replied,
And some

Said by their silence-" Better stay at home."

A rich man burst the door

As Croesus rich; I'm sure

He could not pride himself upon his wit,
And as for wisdom, he had none of it;
He had what's better;-he had wealth.

What a confusion !-all stand up erect-
These crowd around to ask him of his health;
These bow in honest duty and respect;
And these arrange a sofa or a chair,
And these conduct him there.

'Allow me, sir the honor ;"-Then a bow Down to the earth-Is't possible to show Meet gratitude for such kind condescension?

5 The poor man hung his head, And to himself he said,

"This is indeed beyond my comprehension :" Then looking round,

One friendly face he found,

And said—" Pray tell me why is wealth preferred,
To wisdom ?"-"That's a silly question, friend!"
Replied the other-" have you never heard,
A man may lend his store

Of gold or silver ore,

But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend ?"


The Folly and Wickedness of War.--K «.


Two poor mortals, elevated with the distretion of golden bauble on their heads, called a crown, take offence at each other, without any reason, or with the very bad one of wishing for an opportunity of aggrandizing themselves by making reciprocal depredations. The creatures

of the court, and the leading men of the nation, who are usually under the influence of the court, resolve (for it is their interest) to support their royal master, and are never at a loss to invent some colorable pretence for engaging the nation in war. Taxes of the most burdensome kind are 2 levied, soldiers are collected, so as to leave a paucity of husbandmen; reviews and encampments succeed; and at last fifteen or twenty thousand men meet on a plain, and coolly shed each other's blood, without the smallest per sonal animosity, or the shadow of a provocation. The kings, in the mean time, and the grandees, who have employed these poor innocent victims to shoot bullets at each other's heads, remain quietly at home, and amuse themselves, in the intervals of balls, hunting schemes, and pleas ures of every species, with reading at the fireside, and 3 over a cup of chocolate, the despatches from the army, and the news in the Extraordinary Gazette. If the king of Prussia were not at the head of some of the best troops in the world, he would be judged more worthy of being tried, and condemned, at the Old Bailey, than any shedder of blood who ever died by a halter. But he is a king; but he is a hero;-those names fascinate us, and we enrol the butcher of mankind among their benefactors.

When one considers the dreadful circumstances that attend even victories, one cannot help being a little shocked 4 at the exultation which they occasion. I have often thought it would be a laughable scene, if there were not too much of the melancholy in it, when a circle of eager politicians nave met to congratulate each other on a piece of good news just arrived. Every eye sparkles with delight; every voice is raised in announcing the happy event. And what is the cause of all this joy? and for what are our windows illuminated, bonfires kindled, bells rung, and feasts celebrated? We have had a successful engagement. We have left a thousand of the enemy dead on the field of 5 battle, and only nine hundred of our countrymen. Charming news! it was a glorious battle! But before you give a loose to your raptures, pause awhile; and consider, that to every one of these nineteen hundred, life was no less sweet than it is to you; that to the far greater part of them there probably were wives, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, and friends, all of whom are at this mo

ment wailing that event which occasions your foolish and brutal triumph.

We cannot see an individual expire, though a stranger or an enemy, without being sensibly moved, and prompted by compassion to lend him every assistance in our power. Every trace of resentment vanishes in a moment; every other emotion gives way to pity and terror. In these läst extremities, we remember nothing but the respect and tenderness duc to our common nature. What a scene, then, must a field of battle present, where thousands are left without assistance, and without pity, with their wounds exposed to the piercing air, while their blood, freezing as it flows, binds them to the earth, amid the trampling of horses and the insults of an enraged foe! Far from their native home, no tender assiduities of friendship, no well-known voice, no wife, or mother, or sister, is near to soothe their sorrows, relieve their thirst, or close their eyes in death. Unhappy man! and must you be swept into the grave, unnoticed and unnumbered, and no friendly tear be shed for your sufferings, or mingled with your dust!-Robert Hall.


Extract from an Address of Mr. Everett.

Most of us are of that class, who owe whatever of knowledge has shone into our minds, to the free and popular institutions of our native land. There are few of us, who may not be permitted to boast, that we have been reared in an honest poverty or a frugal competence, and. owe every thing to those means of education which are equally open to all. We are summoned to new energy and zeal by the high nature of the experiment we are appointed in Providence to make, and the grandeur of the theatre on which it 2 is to be performed. When the old world afforded no longer any hope, it pleased Heaven to open this last refuge of hu manity. The attempt has begun, and is going on, far from foreign corruption, on the broadest scale, and under the most benignant auspices; and it certainly rests with us to solve

the great problem in human society, to settle, and that forever, the momentous question-whether mankind can be trusted with a truly popular system? One might almost think, without extravagance, that the departed wise and good of all places and times, are looking down from their happy seats to witness what shall now be done by us; that 3 they who lavished their treasures and their blood of old, who labored and suffered, who spake and wrote, who fought and perished, in the one great cause of Freedom and Truth, are now hanging from their orbs on high, over the last solemn experiment of humanity. As I have wandered over the spots, once the scene of their labors, and mused among the prostrate columns of their senate houses and forums, I have seemed almost to hear a voice from the tombs of departed ages; from the sepulchres of the nations, which died before the sight. They exhort us, they adjure us to be 4 faithful to our trust. They implore us, by the long trials of struggling humanity, by the blessed memory of the depart. ed; by the dear faith, which has been plighted by pure hands, to the holy cause of truth and man; by the awful secrets of the prison houses, where the sons of freedom have been immured; by the noble heads which have been brought to the block; by the wrecks of time, by the eloquent ruins of nations, they conjure us not to quench the light which is rising on the world. Greece cries to us, by the convulsed lips of her poisoned, dying Demosthenes; 5 and Rome pleads with us in the mute persuasion of her mangled Tully.-Yes, such is the exhortation which calls on us to exert our powers, to employ onr time, and consecrate our labors in the cause of our native land.

Soliloquy of Hamlet's Uncle.

Oh! my offence is rank, it smells to heaven : 1 It hath the primal, eldest curse upon't,

A brother's murder!-Pray I cannot,
Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill,
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood;

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens

2 To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy,

But to confront the visage of offence?

And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall,

Or pardoned being down?--Then I'll look up;
My fault is past.--But oh, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn?" Forgive me my foul murder!"
That cannot be ; since I am still possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder;
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
3 May one be pardoned, and retain the offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law: but 'tis not so above:
There, is no shuffling: there, the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compelled,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence,-
What then?-what rests?
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
5 Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
O wretched state! oh bosom, black as death!
Oh limed soul; that struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels! make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees: and, heart, with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new born babe;
All may be well.


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Marco Bozzaris.

[He fell in an attack upon the Turkish Camp at Laspia, Augus 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were "To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain."

1 At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour,
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore

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