HISTORY.

BY WILLIAM KENNEDY.

CLOSE We the book-enough-the first dark page
Reveals the common course of every age.
The forest-wanderer and his cavern-home -
The hut deserted for the civic dome-

The iron nerve, exulting in the chace,

Relaxed, and robbed of nature's matchless grace
The wild-dog's hunger, and the lion's strife
Changed to the wants and wars of polished life-
The fierce decision following brief debate
Turned to set quarrel and smooth-spoken hate
Beads, bones and shells despised for love of gold,—
The only love on earth that ne'er grows cold
Such the unvarying tale thy records give,
O History! of all that lived or live.

Still in thy wisdom, world! the child appears, Though tottering onward to six thousand years— In what are Europe's empires of to-day Above the countless nations swept away?

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Yield France and England greater good to man

Than Greece and Rome ere adverse times began?
Let the eye roam at large from pole to pole,
Scan every patch that bears a human soul,
And say wherein the race it gazes on
Arise superior to their fathers gone.

In vain we boast of arts our sires had not,
How much we would recover, is forgot!

In vain we shout "Improvement!" while around
The moan of Misery mocks the lying sound —
While Avarice usurps the regal throne,
Holds a relentless sway and rules alone—
While Vice infuses poison in the cup
Of life, and self-destroying gulps it up :
And the same soil soaked in mild Abel's blood
Is yearly deluged with a crimson flood.

The flag of conquest streams o'er many lands;
Its staff reposes not in chosen hands;
To-day it glows beneath the rising sun,
To-morrow meets him when his course is done;
This hour flies lightly on the southern gale,
Fiercely the next where northern blasts prevail.
Where sleeps thy pride, old Egypt?—where is thine,
Loved of Jehovah-favoured Palestine?—
'Mid storms of sand the desert-demon reigns
Above the silent cities of the plains;

Great Babylon and Nineveh, ye now
Would spare the labour of the victor's plough!
Thy bird, Minerva! may a shelter find
In famed Athena suited to its kind!

But, worse than all, misfortune, linked to shame,
Hath stamped abasement on the Roman name —
besotted thing of crumbling clay
In Cæsar's city keeps a bigot's sway,

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poor

And Superstition its black draught distils
Where Tully's thunder shook the imperial hills!

And must this dreary game be always played? Shall men for ever grapple with a shade? Will England, too, like Venice, Belgium, fecl The sea-slime oozing through the rotten keelHer mighty members lopped-her laurels tornHer name become to younger states a scorn? Yet nothing done to make her downfall more Worthy of weeping than those sped before; This, the sole record on her wave-washed stone"Once glory dwelt in Albion — it is gone!"

By heaven! it is beyond conception strange, How man, the changeling, shuns all noble change! How spirits, panting for exalted state,

Creep on the vulgar highway to be great!
For riches lick the dust, or coin the lie
To purchase honours merit may not buy;
Or risk their own to cut a throat or two
In some low cause projected by the few
When there are smiles to win, and tears to dry,
And many an untold wrong to rectify,
And bleeding hearts to heal, and fame to gain,
Unbought by flattery, dross, or myriads slain;

The sacred incense of a people's prayers
For him who sees his happiness in theirs
The radiant blessings of the grateful breast
That on the brow affectionately rest,
That, ere the soul to its Creator flies,
Ascend, a starry herald, to the skies,

While the gross meteor of the slaves of earth
Sinks with them in the clod which gave them birth.

Hasten, O God Omnipotent! the hour When Truth shall reign with undivided power When Innocence shall cease to be the game At which the hunters of their species aim When generous natures shall escape a sneer, Because they soothed pale Wo and shared its tear; When the historian's page no more shall be

A damning proof against humanity —

When all the eternal precept shall revere,
That to do good is to be happy here—

When man shall make a common league with man
To crush whatever mars Love's holy plan-

To blast the selfish baseness that would steal

The thoughts, one moment, from the general weal.

THE COVENANTERS.

A SCOTTISH TRADITIONARY TALE.

DURING the persecutions in Scotland, consequent upon the fruitless attempt to root out Presbyterianism and establish Episcopacy by force, there lived one Allan Hamilton, a farmer, at the foot of the Lowther mountains in Lanarkshire. His house was situated in a remote valley, which though of small extent, was beautiful and romantic, being embosomed on all sides by hills covered to their summits with rich verdure. Around the house was a considerable piece of arable ground, and behind it a well-stocked orchard and garden. A few tall trees grew in front, waving their ample foliage over the roof, while at each side of the door was a little plot planted with honeysuckle, wallflower, and various odoriferous shrubs. The owner of this neat mansion was a fortunate man; for the world had hitherto gone well with him, and if he had lost his wife-an affliction which sixteen years had mellowed over-he was blessed with an affectionate