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That it belongs to freemen, would disgust

And shock me. I should then with double pain

Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;

And if I must bewail the blessing lost,

For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,

I would at least bewail it under skies

Milder, among a people less austere;

In scenes which having never known me free,

Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.

Whose freedom is by sufferance, and at will
Of a superior, he is never free.
Who lives, and is not weary of a life
Exposed to manacles, deserves them well.
The state, that strives for liberty, though foiled,
And forced to abandon what she bravely sought,
Deserves at least applause for her attempt,
And pity for her loss.—

Cmvper.

EXTRACT FROM THE COURSE OF TIME.

Praise God, ye servants of the Lord! praise God,
Ye angels strong! praise God, ye sons of men!

Praise him who made, and who redeemed your souls!

Who gave you hope, reflection, reason, will;

Minds that can pierce eternity remote,

And live at once on future, present, past;

Can speculate on systems yet to make,

And back recoil on ancient days of time.

Of time, soon past; soon lost among the shades

Of buried years. Not so the actions done

In time, the deeds of reasonable men;

As if engraven with pen of iron grain,

And laid in flinty rock, they stand unchanged,

Written on the various pages of the past;
If good, in rosy characters of love;
If bad, in letters of vindictive fire. 'y

God may forgive, but cannot blot them out.
Systems begin, and end; eternity
Rolls on his endless years; and men absolved
By mercy from the consequence, forget
The evil deed; and God imputes it not:
But neither systems ending, nor begun;
Eternity that rolls his endless years;
Nor men absolved, and sanctified, and washed
By mercy from the consequence; nor yet
Forgetfulness; nor God imputing not,
Can wash the guilty deed once done, from out

The faithful annals of the past; who reads,
And many read, there find it, as it was,
And is, and shall for ever be—a dark,
Unnatural and loathly moral spot.

Pollok.

IMAGINARY APOSTROPHE OF NAPOLEON
BONAPARTE.

Oh! bury me deep in the boundless sea,
Let my heart have a limitless grave;

.For my spirit in life was as fierce and free
As the course of the tempest wave.

And as far from the reach of mortal control
Were the depths of my fathomless mind;

And the ebbs and flows of my single soul,
Were tides to the rest of mankind.

Then my briny pall shall engirdle the world,
As in life did the voice of my fame;

And each mutinous billow, that skyward curled,
Shall to fancy re-echo my name.

That name shall be storied in record sublime,

In the uttermost corners of earth:
And renowned, till the wreck of expiring time,

Be the glorified land of my birth!

Yes, bury my heart in the boundless sea :—
It would buret from a narrower tomb,

Should less than an ocean my sepulchre be,
Or if wrapped in less horrible gloom!

John Malcolm, Esq.

MATILDA.

Outrageous did the loud wind blow
Across the sounding main;

The vessel tossing to and fro,
Could scarce the storm sustain.

Matilda to her fearful breast
Held close her infant dear;

His presence all her fears increased,
And waked the tender tear.

Now nearer to the grateful shore,
The shattered vessel drew;

The daring waves now ceased to roar,
Now shout the exulting crew.

Matilda, with a mother's joy,
Gave thanks to heaven's power;

How fervent she embraced her boy!
How blest the saving hour!

O! much deceived and hapless fair,
Tho* ceased the waves to roar,

Thou, from that fatal moment, ne'er
Didst taste of pleasure more.

For, stepping forth from off the deck,
To reach the welcome ground,

The babe, enclasping from her neck,
Plunged in the gulph profound.

Amazement—chained! her haggard eye

Gave not a tear to flow,
Her bosom heaved no conscious sigh,

She stood a sculptured woe.

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