« ForrigeFortsett »
would pursue the same course -bear up under the samo pressure-abide by the same principles and remain by his side, an exile from power, distinction, and emolument!
If I have missed the opportunity, of obtaining all the 30 support, I might, perhaps, have had, on the present oc
casion, from a very serupulous delicacy, which I think became, and was incumbent upon me–I cannot repent it. In so doing, I acted on the feelings upon which I am
sensible all those would have acted who loved Mr. Fox 35 as I did. I felt within myself, that while the slightest
aspirations might still quiver on those lips, that were the copious channels of eloquence, wisdom, and benevolence - that while one drop of life's blood might still
warm that heart, which throbbed only for the good of 40 mankind-I should not, I could not have acted otherwise.
Gentlemen; the hour is not far distant, when an awful knell shall tell you, that the unburied remains of your re
vered patriot are passing through your streets, to that 45 sepulehral home where your kings—your heroes-your
sages—and your poets, will be honored by an association with his mortal remains. At that hour when the sad solemnity shall take place, in a private way, as more suited
to the simple dignity of his character, than the splendid 50 gaudiness of public pageantry; when you, all of you,
shall be self marshalled in reverential sorrow_mute, and reflecting on your mighty loss—at that moment shall the disgusting contest of an election-wrangle break the so
lemnity of such a scene? Is it fitting that any man 55 should overlook the crisis, and risk the monstrous and
disgusting contest? Is it fitting that I should be that man?
Death of Sheridan.-BYRON.
The enouring produce of immortal mind;
A deathless part of him who died too soon.
But small that portion of the wondrous whole,
Which all embraced-and lightened over all, 10 To cheer-to pierce-to please—or to appal:
From the charmed council to the festive board,
The praised--the proud—who made his praise their pride. 15 When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan
Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man,
Which shook the nations through his lips—and blazed, 20 Till vanquished senates trembled as they praised.
And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm,
Which knew not what it was to intermit;
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring;
Here in their first abode, you still may meet 30 Bright with the hues of his Promethan heat;
A halo of the light of other days,
Ye orators! whom yet our councils yield,
Whose words were sparks of immortality!
Ye men of wit and social eloquence!
While powers of mind almost of boundless range,
(That humbler harmonist of care on earth,)
Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence,
* Pitt, Fox, and Burke.
· Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, 50 And broke the die—in moulding SHERIDAN!
There comes a visitant; a babe is born.
'Twas hope;—for hope is every mother's child.
Brief happiness! too perilous to last; 10 The moon hath waxed and waned, and all is past.
Behold the end!-one morn athwart the wall,
The father tracked him, and with fatal bow 15 Smote down the victim; but, before his eyes,
A rabid she-bear pounced upon the prize;
The hunter; but his dagger’s plunging steel, 20 With riven bosom, made the monster reel;
Unvanquished, both to closer combat flew,
Stretched on the carcass of their antlered prey. 25 Meanwhile his partner waits, her heart at rest,
No burden but her infant on her breast;
Asks him a thousand questions, feigns replies, 30 And reads whate'er she wishes in his eyes.
_Red evening comes; no husband's shadow falls,
The day returns,—but he returns no more. 35 In frenzy forth she sallies, and with cries,
To which no voice except her own replies,
She seeks him, finds him not; some angel guide 40 In mercy turns her from the corpse aside;
Perhaps his own freed spirit, lingering near,
Where lies the little one, all day forgot ; 45 Imparadised in sleep, she finds him there,
Kisses his cheek, and breathes a mother's prayer
When her lost spouse comes o’er the widow's thought 50 The pangs of memory are to madness wrought;
But, when her suckling's eager lips are felt,
With baby wonder gazing in her eyes.
Thy little story, last of all thy race!
-'Tis done: from Greenland's coast the latest sigh 60 Bore infant innocence beyond the sky.
The City and the Country.—M'DONNOUGH. The arrival of the two mountaineers was not long in being known to the whole household in May Fair. Little Mary had hoisted the tartan in less time than the
ordinary tribe of lady's maids could easily comprehend, 5 and having hoisted that, she descended the stairs with
more rapidity than is customary with even that lightfooted tribe. The shakings' by the hand, the “good graciouses! and are you there?” the uninterrupted in
quiries, the questions answered by a look, and the ques 10 tions so rapid as not to admit of that brief response, paşa
sed like the shadow of a cloud upon a Highland glenlike the ruffling of the wind upon a Highland lake. The castle, the loch, the river, the cliff-every field, every
hill, every spot, and almost every bush, had its note of 15 recollection, and its tribute of praise.
There is something exquisite in this — something which the inhabitants of thronged cities, cannot appréciate. But in the patriarchal land of the north, there is
or there was, ere avarice laid it waste, or the love of 20 money made it a desolation—a love of every thing that
was, as well as of every thing that is. The same ancient stone which sheltered the sire, shelters the son; against the tree which his father planted, no man will
lift up an axe; and the resting-place of the departed is 25 sacred as long as life warms a heart, which was present
when they were laid in the dust. In a great city, man, dependent on his own exertions, following the bent of his own passions or appetites, and reckless of every grat
ification but those of himself, is disjointed from man. 30 The tenants of the same roof, know not the names of
each other, and to be parted by one paltry brick, makes a separation as complete, as though they dwelt at the an tipodes. Not only is man disjointed from man, but age
is disjointed from age. The people who inhabit a street 35 or a square, now know nothing and care nothing about
those who inhabited it immediately before; and their brief memorial will be as quickly blotted out by the persons whom chance may afterwards place in the same
situation. Thus, while the great city brings the bodies 40 of men together, it scatters their minds, breaks all the
ties and links of sympathetic society, and piles up its tens and hundreds of thousands, (to all intents and pur poses of deep feeling and delightful intercourse,) like
the cold, hard, unadhering and unconnected particles of 45 a mountain of sand, which the wind of whim, or chance,
or commerce, may whisk about just as the sand particles by the Red Sea are whisked about on the wings of the deadly saniel. In the retirement of the country,
and especially in that country from which our humble 50 visiters have come, and to which our lovely heroine is
looking, it is not so. There man is united to man, and age is linked with age, in the closest ties of friendship, the most delightful bonds of sympathy, the most touching