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If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display;

And let thy strength be seen:
But oh! if fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,

Take half thy canvass in.


The Reformed Robber. It was a custom with Archbishop Sharpe, in his journeys, generally to have a saddle horse attending his carriage, that, in case of feeling fatigued with sitting, he might take the refreshment of a ride. In his advanced age, and a few years before his death, as he was going in this manner to his episcopal residence, and was got a mile or two in advance of his carriage, a decently dressed, good looking young man, on horseback, came up to him, and, with a trembling hand, and faltering tone of voice, presented a pistol to his grace's breast, demanding his money.

The archbishop, with great composure, turned round, and, looking steadfastly at him, desired that he would remove that dangerous weapon and tell him fairly his condition. “Sir, sir,” cried the youth, with great agitation, “ no words; 't is not a time for words now; your money instantly.“Hear me, young man,” said the venerable prelate; “ come on with me. I, you see, am a very old man, and my life is of little consequence; yours seems far otherwise. I am Sharpe, the archbishop of York; my carriage and servants are behind; but conceal your perturbations, and tell me who you are and what money you want, and, on the word of my character, I will not injure you, but prove a friend.

“Here, take this,” giving him a purse of money; “and now tell me how much you want, to make you

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independent of so dangerous and destructive a course as you are now engaged in.” “Oh, sir,” replied the man,

“ I detest the business as much as you do; I am-but-but-at home, there are creditors who will not wait; fifty pounds, my lord, would indeed do what no thought or tongue besides my own can feel or express.

"Well, sir, I take it at your word; and, upon my honor, if you will compose yourself for a day or two, and then call on me at

what I have now given you shall be made up to that sum; trust me, I will not

The highwayman looked at him, was silent, and went off; and, at the time appointed, actually waited on the archbishop, received the money, and assured his lordship that he hoped his words had left impressions which no inducement could ever efface. Nothing more transpired of him for a year and a half; when, one morning, a person knocked at his grace's gate, and, with a peculiar earnestness of voice and countenance, desired to see him.

The archbishop ordered the stranger to be introduced. He had scarcely entered the room, when his countenance changed, his knees tottered, and he sunk almost breathless on the floor. On recovering, he requested an audience in private. This being granted, he said, "My lord, you cannot have forgotten the circumstance of relieving a highwayman.

God and gratitude will never suffer it to be obliterated from my mind. In me, my lord, you now behold that once most wretched of mankind; but now, by your inexpressible humanity, rendered equal, perhaps superior io millions. Oh, my lord, 't is


that have saved me, body and soul; 't is you that have saved a much loved wife, and a little brood of children, whom I love dearer than my own life.

Here, my lord, is the fifty pounds; but never shall I find language to express what I feel; God is

't is you

your witness, your deed itself is your glory; and may heaven be your present and everlasting reward." The archbishop was refusing the money, when the gentleman added, "My lord, I was the younger son of a wealthy man; your grace knew him, I am sure, my name is — ; my marriage alienated the affections of my father, who left me to sorrow and penury.

“My distresses—but your grace already knows to what they drove me. A month since, my brother died, a bachelor, and intestate; his fortune has become mine; and I, spared and preserved by your goodness from an ignominious death, aṁ now the most penitent, the most grateful, and the happiest of human beings.”


The Cuckoo.
Hail, beauteous stranger of the wood,

Attendant on the spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.

Soon as the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
When heaven is filled with music sweet

Of birds among the bow'rs.

The school-boy, wand'ring in the wood,

To pull the fiowers su gay,
Starts, thy curious voice to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fly'st the vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,

Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee;

We'd make, with social wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,

Companions of the spring.


The Duke of Sarony. Henry, duke of Saxony, was by nature fierce and haughty, eager in his pursuits, impatient of disappointment or control. The outrages committed by this prince were without end; every thing was sacrificed to his lust, cruelty, and ambition; and, at his court, beauty, riches, honors became the greatest misfortunes.

His horrid enormities filled him with suspicion. At enmity with every one, and least of all at peace wiib himself, feeling the agonies of a reproving consciene, which haunted him when waking, and left him not when asleep.

In a melancholy fit, under the impression of a wicked action recently perpetrated, he dreamed that the tutelar angel of the country stood before him, with anger in his looks, mixed with some degree of pity “Ill fated wretch!” said the apparition, “listen to the awful command I bear." Upon this, the angel

reached a scroll of paper, and vanished. The scroll contained the following words, After six.

Here the dream ended; for the impression it made broke his rest. The prince awaked in the greatest consternation, deeply struck with the vision. He was convinced that the whole was from God, to prepare him for death, which he concluded was to happen in six months, perhaps in six days; and that this time was allotted him to make his peace with his Maker, by an unfeigned repentance of all his crimes.

Thus, in the utmost torments of mind, six days, six weeks, and six months passed away; but death did not follow. Now he concluded that six years were to be the period of his miserable life. Hitherto, the supposed shortness of his warning had not left it in his power to repair the many injuries he had committed, which was the greatest load upon his mind. Now he resolved to make the most ample reparation.

In this state of mind, when hope prevailed, and some beams of sunshine appeared breaking through the cloud, he addressed his Maker, in a solemn and fervent prayer. His first endeavors were to regain the confidence of his nobles, and love of his people. With unremitting application, he attended to their good; and soon felt that satisfaction in considering himself as their father, which he never knew while he considered them as his slaves.

After tasting such misery, how did he bless the happy change! Now, always calm and serene, diffusive benevolence gilded every thought of his heart, and action of his life. It was his delight to be seen, and to lay open his whole soul, for in it dwelt harmony and peace.

Fame blazed his virtues all around; in distant regions was the good prince known, where his vices had never reached. In all disputes, he was the constant mediator between sovereigns, and between them and their subjects, and he gained more authority over

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