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Departed spirits of the MIGHTY DEAD!-
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!

Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own!
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return

The patriot TELL-the BRUCE of BANNOCKBURN!

Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Campbell.

WHO is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express?—

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains-but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress!

No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek;
Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare; and her cheek
Has the deadly pale hue of despair!

Yet cheerful and happy-nor distant the day-
Poor Mary, the maniac, has been:

The traveller remembers, who journey'd this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,
As Mary, the Maid of the Inn!

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight,
As she welcomed them in with a smile;

Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night,
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She loved; and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hoped to be happy for life:

But Richard was idle and worthless; and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say,
That she was too good for his wife.

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,
And fast were the windows and door;

Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burn'd bright;
And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,
They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

who, arrogantly perhaps, presume that they understand what the features, what the duties of justice are here and in India; let them learn a lesson from this great states man, this enlarged, this liberal philosopher:-" I hope l shall not depart from the simplicity of official language, in saying, that the Majesty of Justice ought to be ap proached with solicitation, not descend to provoke or invite it, much less to debase itself by the suggestion of wrongs, and the promise of redress, with the denunciation of punishment before trial, and even before accusation. This is the exhortation which Mr. Hastings makes to his Counsel. This is the character which he gives of British justice.

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But I will ask your Lordships, do you approve representation? Do you feel, that this is the true image of Justice? Is this the character of British Justice Are these her features? Is this her countenance? this her gait or her mien? No; I think even now I hear you calling upon me to turn from this vile libel, this basi caricature, this Indian pagod, formed by the hand guilty and knavish tyranny, to dupe the heart of igno rance, to turn from this deformed idol, to the true Maj esty of Justice here. Here, indeed, I see a different form enthroned by the sovereign hand of Freedom,-awful without severity-commanding, without pride-vigilan and active, without restlessness or suspicion-searching and inquisitive, without meanness or debasement—not ar rogantly scorning to stoop to the voice of afflicted inne cence, and in its loveliest attitude when bending to uplit the suppliant at its feet.

It is by the majesty, by the form of that Justice, that I do conjure and implore your Lordships, to give you minds to this great business; that I exhort you to look not so much to words which may be denied or quibbles away, but to the plain facts,-to weigh and consider the testimony in your own minds: we know the result must be inevitable. Let the truth appear, and our cause is gained. It is this-I conjure your Lordships, for your own honou for the honour of the nation, for the honour of huma nature, now entrusted to your care, it is this duty tha the Commons of England, speaking through us, claim a your hands.

They exhort you to it by every thing that calls sublimely upon the heart of man-by the Majesty of that

Justice which this bold man has libelled-by the wide fame of your own tribunal-by the sacred pledge by which you swear in the solemn hour of decision; knowing that that decision will then bring you the highest reward that ever blessed the heart of man-the consciousness of having done the greatest act of mercy for the world, that the earth has ever yet received from any hand but Heaven.— My Lords, I have done.

Panegyric on the Eloquence of Sheridan.

He has this day surprised the thousands who hung with rapture on his accents, by such an array of talents, such an exhibition of capacity, such a display of powers, as are unparalleled in the annals of oratory; a display that reflected the highest honour on himself-lustre upon = letters-renown upon parliament-glory upon the country. Of all species of rhetoric, of every kind of eloquence that has been witnessed or recorded, either in ancient or modern times; whatever the acuteness of the bar, the dignity of the senate, the solidity of the judgment-seat, and the sacred morality of the pulpit, have hitherto furnished; nothing has equalled what we have this day heard. No holy seer of religion, no statesman, no orator, no man of any literary description whatever, has come up, in the one instance, to the pure sentiments of morality; or, in the other, to that variety of knowledge, force of imagination, propriety and vivacity of allusion, beauty and elegance of diction, strength and copiousness of style, pathos and sublimity of conception, to which we, this day, listened with ardour and admiration. From poetry up to eloquence, there is not a species of composition, of which a complete and perfect specimen might not, from that single speech, be culled and collected.

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Burke.

168

PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN VERSE

Apostrophe to Love.

O HAPPY' love'! where love' like this' is found;
O heart-felt' raptures'! bliss' beyond compare'!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round',
And sage Experience bids me this declare'—
If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare',
One cordial in this melancholy vale',

'Tis when a youthful', loving', modest' pair',

In other's' arms' breathe out the tender' tale', Beneath the milk-white' thorn', that scents' the evening' gale'!

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart-
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's' unsuspecting youth?
Curse' on his perjured arts! dissembling' smooth!
Are honour', virtue', conscience', all' exiled?
Is there no pity', no relenting ruth',

Points' to the parents' fondling' o'er their child';
Then paints` the ruin'd` maid', and their' distraction' wild?'

Burns.

The Soldier's Dream.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die-

When, reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dream'd it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track:
'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart

"Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn!"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay:—
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of moru,
And the voice in my dreaming ear-melted away!

Campbell.

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On True Dignity.

'HAIL, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, And woo the weary to profound repose!

Can Passion's wildest uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes?
Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes,
And Contemplation soar on seraph-wings.
O Solitude! the man who thee foregoes,
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs.

"Vain man! is grandeur given to gay attire?
Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid:-
To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire?
It is thy weakness that requires their aid:-
To palaces, with gold and gems inlay'd?
They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm:-
To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade?
Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm!
Behold what deeds of wo the locust can perform!

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