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and has discharged truly his duty to God: and you will find that such a man, through force of this delusion, generally looks down with spiritual pride upon every other man who has less affectation of piety,—though, perhaps, ten times more real honesty than himself.
“ This likewise is a sore evil under the sun : and, I believe, there is no one mistaken principle, which, for its time, has wrought more serious mischiefs.
“For a general proof of this, examine the history of the Romish church.”
[Well, what can you make of that? cried Dr. Slop, see what scenes of cruelty, murder, răpine, bloodshed," [They may thank their own obstinacy, cried Dr. Slop, “ have all been sanctified by religion not strictly governed by morality.
“ In how many kingdoms of the world has the crusading sword of this misguided Saint-errant, spared neither age, nor merit, nor sex, nor condition ?-and, as he fought under the banners of a religion which set him loose from justice and humanity, he shewed none; mercilessly trampled upon both, -heard neither the cries of the unfortunate, nor pitied their distresses"
[I have been in many a battle, an't please your honor, quoth Trim, sighing, but never in so melancholy a one as this.-I would not have drawn a trigger in it against these poor souls, to have been made a general officer. Why, what do you understand of the affair ? said Dr. Slop, (looking towards Trim, with something more of contempt than the Corporal's honest heart deserved)—What do you know friend, about this battle you talk of ?- I know, replied Trim, that I never refused quarter in my life to any man who cried out for it:--but to a woman or a child, continued Trim, before I would level my musket at them, I would lose my life a thousand times. Here's a crown for thee, Trim, to drink with Obadiah to-night, quoth my uncle Toby.—God bless your honor, replied Trim-I had rather these poor women and children had it.—Thou art an honest fellow, quoth my uncle Toby.—My father nodded his head, as much as to say, --and so he is.]
Dirge of Alaric, the Visigoth, Who stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might be interred.-EVERETT.
When I am dead, no pageant* train
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Stain it with hypocritic tear ;
Upon the spot where I repose;
Your monuments upon my breast,
Lay down the wreck of Power to rest;
the mountain stream shall turn,
A resting-place for ever there :
Back to the clods, that gave them bir do ;
The ransom of a conquered earth ;
Ye've laid your monarch down to rot,
+ See the note on page 320.
Ye shall not rear upon its side
Pillar or mound to mark the spot ; For long enough the world has shook Beneath the terrors of my look ; And now that I have run my race, The astonished realms shall rest a space. My course was like a river deep,
And from the northern hills I burst, Across the world in wrath to sweep,
And where I went the spot was cursed, Nor blade of grass again was seen Where Alaric and his hosts had been.* See how their haughty barriers fail
Beneath the terror of the Goth,
Before my ruthless sabaoth,
In judgment my triumphal car; 'Twas God alone on high did send
The avenging Scythian to the war,
O'er guilty king and guilty realm;
the helm, When, launched in fury on the flood, I ploughed my way through seas of blood, And in the stream their hearts had spilt Washed out the long arrears of guilt. Across the everlasting Alp
I poured the torrent of my powers, And feeble Cæsars shrieked for help
In vain within their seven-hilled towers ; I quenched in blood the brightest gem That glittered in their diadem, And struck a darker, deeper die In the purple of their majesty, *See the note on page 390.
ta as in fur.
And băde my northern banners shine
I go to Him from whom I came;
Of glory that adorns my name;
My course is run, my errand done
But darker ministers of fate
And in the caves of vengeance, wait :
Lines written on visiting the beautiful burying-ground at
New Haven.-N. FROTHINGHAM.
0! WHERE are they, whose all that earth could give
Beneath these senseless marbles disappeared ? Where even they, who taught these stones to grieve ;
The hands that hewed them, and the hearts that reared ?
Such the poor bounds of all that's hoped or feared, Within the griefs and smiles of this short day!
Here sunk the honored, vanished the endeared ; This the last tribute love to love could
pay, An idle păgeant pile to graces passed away.
* Al'tila was the king of the Huns, and, for many years, in the first half of the fifth century, was the terror both of Constantinople and Rome. Not long after the death of Alaric, he invaded the Roman empire, at the head of half a million of barbarians, and with fire and sword laid waste many of its most fertile provinces. Into the bold sketch of Alaric, which is given in this Dirge, the poet, in the license of his art, has thrown some of the distinguishing features of Attila. It may be well to advise the youthful reader, that, as a matter of sober history, it was Attila, and not Alaric, who used to say that the grass never grew where his horse had trod; and that it was not Alaric, but Attila, who was called the Scourge of God. With this appellation the king of the Huns was so well pleased that he adopted it as one of his titles of honor.
Why deck these sculptured trophies of the tomb ?
Why, victims, garland thus the spoiler's fane? Hope ye by these to avert oblivion's doom ;
In grief ambitious, and in ashes vain ?
Go, rather, bid the sand the trace retain, Of all that parted virtue felt and did !
Yet powerless man revõlts from ruin's reign; And pride has gleamed upon the coffin-lid, And reared o'er mouldering dust the mountain pyramid.
Sink, mean memorials of what cannot die !
Be lowly as the relics ye o'erspread ! Nor lift your funeral forms so gorgeously,
To tell who slumbers in each narrow bed :
I would not honor thus the sainted dead : Nor to each stranger's careless ear declare
My sācred griefs for joy and friendship fled. 0, let me hide the names of those that were Deep in my stricken heart, and shrine them only there!
Some account of the character and merits of John Playfair,
Professor of Natural Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh.—JEFFREY.
It has struck many people, we believe, as very extraordinary, that so eminent a person as Mr. Playfair should have been allowed to sink into his grave in the midst of us, without calling forth almost so much as an attempt to commemorate his merit, even in a common newspaper; and that the death of a man so celebrated and beloved, and at the same time so closely connected with many who could well appreciate and suitably describe his excellencies, should be left to the brief and ordinary notice of the daily obituary. No event of the kind certainly ever excited more general sympathy; and no individual
, we are persuaded, will be longer or more affectionately remembered by all the classes of his fellow-citizens : and yet it is to these very circumstances
must look for an explanation of the appārent neg. lect with which his memory has been followed.
We beg leave to assure our readers, that it is merely from an anxiety to do something to gratify this natural im