Imatges de pàgina
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the frowns (the only salutations we may expect from many of the cold-hearted race of men,) we so often meet with. This medley, then, strange as it may appear, we perceive to be the effect of true wisdom, and not of chance or unconcern. Pleasure softening the hard fate pain condemns us to endure; and pain restraining the excesses and immoderate indulgences pleasure is apt to create. Give but the loose reign to pleasure, and see how rapidly she will drive us on the road to ruin. Transfer it to pain, and observe how sure, though slow, she drags the wheels of torment, crushing the ambition and energy of man, till he wishes for nought but death to stop her ca

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Look at the influences other feelings exercise over us when they obtain full possession of the mind. Hope, when untrammelled by fear, is sure to give a colouring and gloss to the happiness we expect, which a trial of its virtues will not allow us to bear and fear, when the mind is its subject, anticipates nothing but evil, nor will it allow us to imagine the possibility of the ills we look for being either averted or mitigated: so 'absolute does one feeling or the other exercise its power when it reigns singly in the bosom of man. Other instances might be enumerated where the same effect is produced; but those already mentioned are sufficient to prove, that a mixture of feeling in the mind is more for our happiness and welfare than the exclusive reign of any one impulse, however much it might be desired in connexion with others. I do go so far, however, as to assert, that a mixture of pain with pleasure, and of fear with hope, will be for our present happiness and comfort; but that pain, correcting the excesses of pleasure, and fear dispelling the delusions of hope, will better prepare us for the enjoyment of eternal ages, than the unrestrained indulgence of either pleasure or hope.

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ALTERATION. AN EPIGRAM.

Thomas, of late so gay and free,
You sang to love full many a glee,
Nor e'er from pleasure tarried;
Now altered quite-the form of wo!
Ah! Ben, my friend, you do not know
That I am-I am married.

LINES TO MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

[When the celebrated Monsieur Alexandre, the ventriloquist, was at Abbotsford, in 1824, he chanced to mention to his distinguished host that he kept an album, in which were reposited various tributes which had been paid to his talents by eminent individuals in various countries. Sir Walter stepped aside, while the carriage was getting ready for his guest's departure, and wrote the following characteristic lines.] Of yore, in old England, it was not thought good, Το carry two visages under one hood:

What should folks say to you, who have faces so plenty,
That, from under one hood, you last night showed us twenty?
Stand forth, arch-deceiver! and tell us, in truth,
Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in youth?
Man, woman, or child? or a dog, or a mouse?
Or are you at once each live thing in the house?
Each live thing did I ask?—each dead implement too-
A workshop in your person-saw, chisel, and screw?
Above all, -are you one individual?—I know
You must be at least,-ALEXANDRE AND Co.
But I think you're a troop-an assemblage—a mob ;
And that I, as the sheriff, must take up the job;
And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse,
Must read you the Riot Act, and bid you disperse.
Abbotsford, April 23, 1824.
WALTER SCOTT.

THE BROTHER.

BY H. SIGOURNEY.

The good ship struck the isle of ice, where northern seas were high,

And midnight, with her ebon veil, enwrapp'd the starless sky It struck!-what moment was there then for sorrow's power

less strife?

When but one bold and sudden rush remain'd 'tween death and life.

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The boat!-the boat! it dared the wave-it sprang the

awaken'd train,

But they, who sleep below, alas! the thought for them is vain ;

A lone and tossing speck it toil'd amid the wrathful tide, And woe was in their gallant hearts who left that vessel's side.

The moon look'd forth from sever'd clouds,-oh God, what sight was there!

Who stood upon that fated deck, in mute and calm despair? Was it some creature of the deep, or spirit from the sky, That bare such beauty in her form, such meekness in her eye?

Her hand she waved in fond adieu, as if some friend she blest, Then closer drew her snowy robe around her youthful breast, And upward to the darken'd heavens imploring glances cast, While her rich curls profusely fell, and floated on the blast.

But quickly from the labouring oar a manly form did start, While wild and agonizing groans burst from his heaving heart, His bloodless lips with ardour burn'd, strange lustre fir'd his

eye,

"How can I bear a brother's name, and leave thee thus to die?"

He plunged the crested wave he ruled-he climb'd the cleaving deck,

And clasp'd her, as the thundering surge swept o'er the whelming wreck;

"Sweet sister, 'tis my voice," he cried, "my cheek is press'd to thine,

From one dear breast life's tide we drew, thy last cold bed be mine."

The moon, like nature's priestess pure, look'd lone and silent down,

Baptising them with holy light, as with a martyr's crown, Then shrank behind her fleecy veil-loud shriek'd th' impetuous main,

The deep sea closed-and where were they?-Go, ask the angel train!

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