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Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,-
But that the dread of something after death,-
The undiscovered.country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns,- puzzles the will ;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.

SHAKSPEARE.

CXLI. - CATILINE'S DEFIANCE,

ON BEING BANISHED FROM ROME BY THE SENATE

Wan (won), a., palo and sickly. | TAR'TA-RUS (Greek), n., a name for SLACK, A., loose ; weak.

the infernal regions. LOATHE, v. t., to abhor.

AN'ARCH-Y (-ark-), n., political conBAN'ISHEv, pp., expelled ; ex'iled. I fusion ; want of rule. Cen'tact, n., touch ; close union. Pro-scRIS'TiON, n., a dooming to AL-LE'GI-ANCE (-je), n., the duty of a death, exile, or loss of property. subject to government.

Con-vict'ED, pp., proved guilty. In hearth (harth) th is aspirate in the singular, but vocal (as in breathe) in the plural. Pronounce massacre, mas'sa-ker. In thirsty and burst, give the vowel the sound of e in her. Do not pervert oi in poi'son.

BANISHED from Rome! What's banished, but set free
From daily contact of the things I loathe ? .
“Tried and convicted traitor !” – Who says this?
Who 'll prove it, at his peril, on my head ?
Banished? — I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain!
I held some slack allegiance till this hour;
But now my sword 's my own..

Smile on, my lords.
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong privocations, bitter, burning wrongs,

I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.
But here I stand and scoff you :- here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face.
Your consul's merciful. For this all thanks.
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline.

"Traitor!" I go — but I return. This . . . . trial!
Here I devote your senate! I've had wrongs,
To stir a fever in the blood of age,
Or make the infant sinew strong as steel.
This day's the birth of sorrows!— This hour's work
Will breed proscriptions. .
Look to your hearths, my lords ;
For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tar'tarus ! — all shames and crimes ;
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup;
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and ax,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ;
Till Anarchy comes down on you like night,
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.

I go — but not to leap the gulf alone.
I go — but when I come, 't will be the burst
Of ocean in the earthquake, — rolling back
In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well!
You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood
Shall quench its flame. Back, slaves !
I will return.

GEORGE CROLY.

IMMORTALITY. 0, No ! it is no flattering lure, no fancy weak or fond, When Hope would bid us rest secure in better life beyond; Nor loss, nor shame, nor grief, nor sin, her promise may

gainsay; The voice divine hath spoke within, and God did ne'er betray.

Sarah F. ADAMS.

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In its sublime research, philosophy

May measure out the ocean-deep; may count The sands, or the sun's rays; but, God for thee

There is no weight nor measure:—none can mount Up to thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark,

Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try
To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark ;

And thought is lost, ere thought can soar so high,
Even like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call

First chaos, then existence. Lord, on thee Eternity had its foundation : all

Sprang forth from thee- of light, joy, harmony,
Sole origin ; — all life, all beauty thine.

Thy word created all, and doth create,
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. ..

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be, glorious! great!
Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!

Thou art ! directing, guiding all, thou art !

Direct my understanding, then, to thee;
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart.-

Though but an atom ’mid immensity,
Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand !

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth,
On the last verge of mortal being stand,

Close to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land!

The chain or being is complete in me;

In me is marter's last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit — Deity!

I can command the lightning, and am dust! A monarch — and a slave! a worm - a god!

Whence came I here, and how so marvelously Constructed and conceived! Unknown! This clod

Lives surely through some higher energy;
For, from itself alone, it could not be!

Creator, yes : thy wisdom and thy word

Created me! Thou Source of life and good! Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord !

Thy light, thy love, in their bright plénitude, Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring

Over the abyss of death, and băde it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing

Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere,
Even to its Source - to Thee - its Author, there !

0, thought ineffable! 0, vision blest !

Though worthless our conceptions all of thee,
Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast

And waft its homage to thy Deity.
God, thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar,

Thus seek thy presence, Being wise and good !
'Mid thy vast works admire, obey, adore ;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude !

From the Russian of GABRIEL R. DERZHAVINE,

THE END.

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