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dren. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it. I have killed many. I have glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace. But do not think that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. Logan will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one!
5. MORAL COSMETICS. - - Horace Smith. Born, 1779; died, 1849.
YE who would save your features florid,
Adopt this plan,
A hale old man :
Be wisely gay;
The mind, not sense,
Whate'er his state;
Time, fortune, fate.
6. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. - - Caroline Bowles Southey
Tread softly, — bow the head,
In reverent silence bow;
Is passing now.
With holy reverence bow;
Greater than thou.
Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo! death doth keep his state;
no guards defend
No smiling courtiers tread;
A dying head.
An infant wail alone;
The parting groan.
Burst are the prison bars,
Beyond the stars!
There lies the soulless clod;
Wakes with his God!
7. HOPE, - Sarah F. Adams.
Hope leads the child to plant the flower, the man to sow the seed;
8. DEATH. - Horace Smith.
Fate! Fortune! Chance! whose blindness, hostility or kindness,
Play such strange freaks with human destinies, Contrasting poor and wealthy, the life-diseased and healthy,
The blessed, the cursed, the witless and the wise, — Ye have a master; one, who mars what ye have done; Levelling all that move beneath the sun,
Take courage, ye that languish beneath the withering anguish
Of open wrong, or tyrannous deceit;
And lay him prostrate, helpless, at your feet !
Death! Where Conquest crowns his quarrel, and the victor, wreathed with
laurel, While trembling Nations bow beneath his rod, On his guarded throne reposes, in living apotheõsis,
The Lord's anointed and earth's demigod, What form of fear croaks in his ear “ The victor's car is but a funeral bier" ?
Leaps, at a bound, the shuddering castle's moat,
With rattling finger grasps him by the throat,
And night has veiled his crime from every eye, When nothing living daunts him, and no fear of justice haunts him,
Who wakes his conscience-stricken agony ?
human act, To the widow comfort-spurning, to the slave for freedom yearning,
To the diseased, with cureless anguish racked, -
9. LACIIRYMOSE WRITERS. - Horace Smith.
whose day is night,
If ye must needs uphold the pall,
And walk at Pleasure's funeral,
Ye say that Earth 's a charnel ; Life,
Incessant wretchedness and strife ; That all is doom below and wrath above;
The sun and moon, sepulchral lamps ;
The sky, a vault whose baleful damps
Ungrateful and calumnious crew,
Whose plaints, as impious as untrue, From morbid intellects derive their birth,
Away! begone, to mope and moan,
And weep in some asylum lone, Where ye may rail unheard at Heaven and Earth!
Earth! on whose stage, in pomp arrayed,
Life's joyous interlude is played,
Thy woods and waters, hills and dales,
How dead must be the soul that fails
Man! whose high intellect supplies
Whose heart 's a fount of fresh delight,
Pity the Cynics, who would blight
0, Woman! who from realms above
Hast brought to Earth a Heaven of love, Terrestrial angel, beautiful as pure!
No pains, no penalties, dispense
On thy traducers, their offence
Father and God! whose love and might
To every sense are blazoned bright On the vast three-leaved Bible, Earth, Sea, Sky, —
Pardon the impugners of Thy laws,
Expand their hearts, and give them cause To bless the exhaustless grace they now deny!
10. THE SANCTUARY. - Horace Smith. Adapted. For man there still is left one sacred charter;
One refuge still remains for human woes. Victim of care ! or persecution's martyr!
Who seek'st a sure asylum from thy foes, Learn that the holiest, safest, purest, best,
Is man's en breast!
There is a solemn sanctuary, founded
By God himself; not for transgressors meant; But that the man oppressed, the spirit-wounded,
And all beneath the world's injustice bent,
The living heart, is unprofaned and pure,
Who thither fly; it is an ark secure,
Its peaceful path.
Terrestrial antepast of heavenly joy,
My claim to thy beatitudes destroy! Still may I keep this Paradise unlost,
Where'er I 'm tost!
E'en in the flesh, the spirit disembodied,
Unchecked by time and space, may soar elate, In silent awe to commune with the Godhead,
Or the millennium reign anticipate, When Earth shall be all sanctity and love,
Like Heaven above. How sweet to turn from anguish, guilt and madness,
From scenes where strife and tumult never cease,
Where all is concord, charity and peace;
On its own nest !
When, spleenful as the sensitive Mimosa,
We shrink from Winter's touch and Nature's gloom, There may we conjure up a Vallombrosa,
Where groves and bowers in Summer beauty bloom, And the heart dances in the sunny glade
Fancy has made.
But, would we dedicate to nobler uses
This bosom sanctuary, let us there
While high and charitable thoughts, and prayer,
With love of kind.