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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,
6. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. - Caroline Bowles Southey
TREAD Softly, bow the head, -
- 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,
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,
Where Conquest crowns his quarrel, and the victor, wreathed with laurel,
While trembling Nations bow beneath his rod,
"The victor's car is but a funeral bier"?
Who, spite of guards and yeomen, steel phalanx and cross-bowmen, Leaps, at a bound, the shuddering castle's moat,
The tyrant's crown down dashes, his sceptre treads to ashes,
With rattling finger grasps him by the throat,
His breath out-wrings, and his corse down flings
To the dark pit where grave-worms feed on kings?
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?—
To those who pine in sorrow, whose wretchedness can borrow
To the widow comfort-spurning, to the slave for freedom yearning,
And points to realms where pain and sorrow cease?—
9. LACHRYMOSE WRITERS.-Horace Smith.
YE human screech-owls, who delight
If ye must needs uphold the pall,
Be Mutes-and publish not your cries and groans.
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;
Ungrateful and calumnious crew,
Whose plaints, as impious as untrue,
Earth! on whose stage, in pomp arrayed,
Earth! with thy pageants ever new and bright,
Man! whose high intellect supplies
Of holy and enrapturing pursuits;
Whose heart 's a fount of fresh delight,
O, Woman! who from realms above
Is its own punishment, most sharp and sure.
Father and God! whose love and might
Earth, Sea, Sky, —
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!
My claim to thy beatitudes destroy!
E'en in the flesh, the spirit disembodied,
Unchecked by time and space, may soar elate,
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
While high and charitable thoughts, and prayer, May teach us gratitude to God, combined
With love of kind.