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much reviving as to exhibit the intellectual vigour of his best days; but at length he has announced to his congregation the unwelcome truth, that, unable any longer to sustain the responsibilities of his pastoral character, he must resign a charge, and an employment under which his people have been edified and built up. Thus have the ministerial labours of one of the most extraordinary men with whom we have been acquainted in either hemisphere, apparently come to a premature termination. Dr. Mason leaves a chasm in pulpit oratory which, on the other side of the Atlantic, at least,

cannot be easily filled up. Combining vigour and clearness of intellect with great force of expression; deeply imbued with scriptural knowledge ; extensively read in theology, and particularly in the divines of the seventeenth century; possessing a power of detecting error, however unpopular, but seldom equalled, and a boldness in declaring truth, he seemed there to stand unrivalled in the sacred office. In the whole of his ministry he exhibited an ardent zeal, and an evangelical fervour, which convinced all of his sincere desire to promote the best interests of men. To these high qualifications he added no ordinary degree of classical learning. His knowledge of human nature, and his happy faculty of applying this knowledge, in his public ministrations, to the unfolding of hidden principles of action, and to the detection of those insidious but false motives, by which corrupt man is duped and ruined, was as successful as it was rare. He now leaves the scene where his powerful talent has been so long the delight of his astonished hearers; but its effects will live in the hearts and the recollection of thousands when he is sleeping in the dust.

It is some relief, however, under these circumstances, that we can add, that the trustees of Dickenson College, in Pennsylvania, have called Dr. Mason to the presidential chair of that Institution. This office he has accepted, and we are gratified by the assurance that his powers are still equal to the undertaking, and that in the providence of God he may still be a blessing to the rising generation, though he ceases as a pastor to instruct his flock. No one has yet offered who is likely to succeed him. “ Indeed,” says our correspondent, one of his most attached, and at the same time, most judicious, auditors, “it will be difficult to find one who will unite, as he did, the opinions and feelings of his people. But I trust the head of the church will not long leave us in suspense." In this hope who that knows the excellence of Dr. Mason, and the importance of the station which he filled in the

church of Christ, but will cordially unite, whilst with us they express every kind and Christian 'wish for the personal happiness and continued usefulness of this eminent servant of the Lord !

POETRY.

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STANZAS,
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATII OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE,

6 All is vanity !”
WHAT murmur is that in the air ?

What shout that re-echoes abroad?
'Tis the noise of a tumult,--the voice of despair,-

The vassal who weeps for his lord ;-
His lord was a captive in thrall,

Encircled by ocean afar;
He look'd on the nations, and wither'd them all,

He dragg’d them in chains at his car!
His eye, like the lightning, wherever he turn'd,
Shot its arrows around him, and blasted, and burn'd.

A spirit broods over the deep,

And heavy mists hang on the main;
Unbathed in the billows the mermaid may weep,

The tyrant has broken bis chain!
Thy bosom, old ocean, no more

Shall bear him to victory far;
No more shall he tread on thy wave-beaten shore,

Or rule the dire tempest of war,
To deluge the world with the blood of the slain;
And in triumph return with his laurels again,

Those laurels are faded and gone,

Their verdure for ever is fled;
The wind breathed upon them,-they wither'd forlorn ;-

They blossom'd—their glory is shed :
And low in the dust they shall lie,

Despoil'd of their beauty and fame;
Too matchless to perish,--too mighty to die,

A witness of glory and shame,
They encircle his brows, but their hero is dead;
And broken, and soild, in the tomb they are laid.

No mercy was bound in his heart,

And joy never lightend his soul;
The meek voice of pity he bade to depart,

Ambition was lord of the whole;

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And urge

The widow sat weeping in vain;

The cry of the orphan arose;
He joy'd in their sorrow, and mock'd at their pain,

Till in death they had found their repose ;
He laugh'd them to scorn in the temple of God;
And the sceptre with him was a scourge and a rod.

I look'd on thee, star of the morn,

And, lo! thou wast risen in blood !
I look'd in the evening,-thy brightness was shorn,

And set in the isle of the flood;
I thought on thy backward career,

I thought on the race thou hadst run,-
I thought on thy star in the midst of his sphere,

And saw when thy glory was done;
From the height thou hadst gain'd thy declining was seen,
And the evening and morn were scarce waning between.
O Gallia ! 'twas thine to inspire,

the
young

warrior on;
'Twas thine to enkindle, and cherish the fire,

That now thy own bosom has torn;
For thee, and for glory, he rode

Over mountain, and kingdom, and sea;
On the neck of the vanquish'd in vengeance he trode,

He fought, and he conquer'd for thee;
Then set up a shrine, and a god to adore ;
His ambition the idol he fell down before.

Where Rhine bears its waters along,

Great chieftain, thy battle was proud;
No minstrel that day pour'd the music of song,

But the shout of the victor was loud;
And there, in the midst of the plain,
With
prowess

undaunted he stood;
Death stalk'd all around him, and cumber'd with slain

Alike both the field and the flood !-
The torrents of life had descended like rain,
And the river rollid on with its blood-colour'd stain.

Then up the high mountains away,(1)

To the land of the great and the brave;
Where Rome and where Carthage by turns held the sway,

And Hamilcar and Hannibal strave;
Bright glory was waiting thee there,

Her bays and her honours were nigh;
The heart of the Roman was frozen with care,

And thou wert' extoll’d to the sky! The queen of the world ;—thou didsť call her thine'own, And sat thee with her, in her temple and throne. (2)

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Lone harp of the desert, (3) — art thou,

In the hand of thy Memnon unstrung?
Thy chords are forgotten, and broken, and how

Are forgotten the notes thou hast rung?
Thy harmony welcomes no more

The ruby-bright beams of the morn;
Thy strings are polluted and covered with gore,

Thy music to heaven is borne;
The pride of the strife, at the dawn thou didst hail,
And at eve o'er the dead pour’d thy tremulous wail.

Why mourn, harp of Memnon, the lot

That awaited the hero of France?
He came to the wilds of thy desert, and thought

To wither his foes with a glance;

My country!' the Mussulman cried,

And Britannia stood ready to aid ; (4)
Her sons bared their breasts to the death-bolt, and died;

In honour their ashes are laid ;
And that harpy and vulture who pounc'd on the prey
Was scar'd from the scene of his rapine away.

And Acre, the story can tell, (5)

(For ever be darken'd that day !) When oaths that were pledg'd for the mighty who fell,

Were sounds to deceive and betray; -
In vain did the flower of his youth

Rush onward, with courage elate ;
In vain did he sever the vows of his truth,

They rush'd but to hasten their fate;
For the ships of Britannia were gay on the sea,
And her standards were streaming in fair Galilee.

Then over the ocean he flew,

His eagles were strong on the wing ;
His laurels, once faded, were planted anew,

And refresh'd at the Acheron spring;(6)
There Lodi had seen his dark frown, (7)

And quak'd at the voice of his word ;
The thundering boom of his cannon had strown

Them, like autumn's leaves thick on the sward ; Whilst thousands for ever went down to the shade, And the harvest was rich for the spear and the blade.

Ah! those were the days of his might,

Then glory encircled his brow;
He flew like a thunderbolt thick in the fight,

And number'd him victims enow;
Whilst there he was reaping renown, (8)

The nations beheld him afar ;
He took them, and plac'd them, like stars, in his crown,

The thunder, and lightning, of war!

Great chieftain of battle; -- thy soul was a beam,
That shook empires to dust, and made life like a dream!

He turn'd him, and look'd to the north ;

A capital flam'd (9) in the air ;
He fought with the giant of storms in his wrath,

He fought, - but affliction was there;
Distress'd and forlorn, he return'd,

His comrades were cold in the snows;
Like flax they had kindled, — like flax they had burn'd,

The winter wind over them blows;
From the height of his station the despot is cast,
His bow is o'er-bended, and broken at last!

Behold! - he is risen again !

Redoubled in fury he comes ;
The brine is beneath him, white foams the wide main,

And, hark! to his trumpets and drums;
He marshals them, - onward they go,

For France and Napoleon they vow To bleed at thine altar, o dread Waterloo !

"Tis done!- he is desolate now;To the isle of the ocean they bear him alone, Who alike grasp'd a kingdom, -- or crumbled a throne.

Now, tyrant of murder and blood,

Now drink down thy cup to the full ;
The strength of thy torment is but in the bud,

The iron is deep in thy soul;
The hand of the spoiler is high,

Retribution is hasting along;
The angel of death bends his pinions to fly,

His arrows are pointed and strong;
He breathes on thy path, with the wrath of his ire,
His breath is consuming, - his footsteps are fire.

And now thou must meet him, and face

A champion too stout for thine arm;
He follows thee on, through thy pestilent race,

His hand with the lightning is warm;
Ah, where wilt thou look for repose ?

What hope in thy bosom is found ?
Earth labours beneath thee with horrible throes,

And spectres are starting around ;-
And all in their winding-sheets crimson'd appear,
Frown ghastly upon thee, -- and groan in thine ear,

Lo! there is thy comrade who fought,

And won the dread field by thy side; Lo! there is thy foeman, neglected, forgot,

In the midst of thy prowess and pride ;

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