dren. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living ereature. 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 eave bis life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one' 6. MORAL COSMETICS. Horace Smith. Born, 1779; died, 1849. YE who would save your features florid, Adopt this plan, THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. - Caroline Bowles Southen HOPE leads the child to plant the flower, the man to sow the seed, 8. DEATH. FATE Fortune! Chance! whose blindness, hostility or kindness The blessed, the cursed, the witless and the wise, - Death! Take courage, ye that languish beneath the withering anguish There comes a swift redresser to punish your oppressor, And lay him prostrate, helpless, at your feet! O, Champion strong! Righter of wrong. Justice, equality, to thee belong, Death -- Where Conquest crowns his quarre., and the victor, wreathed with laurel, While trembling Nations bow beneath his rod, On his guarded throne reposes, in living apotheosis, What form of fear croaks in his ear "The victor's car is but a funeral bier"? Death! Who, spite of guards and yeomen, steel phalanx and cross-bowmen, The tyrant's crown down dashes, his sceptre treads to ashes, His breath out-wrings, and his corse down flings To the dark pit where grave-worms feed on kings?. Death! When the murderer 's undetected, when the robber 's unsuspected, 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? Who makes him start, with his withering dart, And wrings the secret from his bursting heart? Death! To those who pine in sorrow, whose wretchedness can borrow No moment's ease from any human act, To the widow comfort-spurning, to the slave for freedom yearning, To the diseased, with cureless anguish racked, Who brings relcase, and whispers peace And points to realms where pain and sorrow cease?. Death! 9. LACHRYMOSE WRITERS. Horace Smith. YE human screech-owls, who delight Be Mutes-and publish not your cries and groans Ye say that Earth's a charnel; Life, 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, – Earth with thy pageants ever new and bright, To see and bless thy beauties infinite! Man! whose high intellect supplies Of holy and enrapturing pursuits; Whose heart 's a fount of fresh delight, — Thy godlike gifts, and rank thee with the brutcs! O, 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 Is its own punishment, most sharp and sure. Father and God! whose love and might 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. Who seek'st a sure asylum from thy foes, 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, Might turn from outward wrong, turmoil and din, To peace within Each bosom is a temple, - when its altar, O, Bower of Bliss! O, sanctuary holy! E'en in the flesh, the spirit disembodied, How sweet to turn from anguish, guilt and madness, And, sheltered from the storm, the soul may rest 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 Hallow our hearts from all the world's abuses; May teach us gratitude to God, combined With love of kind. |