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But thou, beneath the random bield
O'clod or stane,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
In humble guise;
And low thou lies!
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'ei.
Who long with wants and woes has striven,-
To misery's brink,
He, ruin'd, sink.
That fate is thine, ,—no distant date;
Full on thy bloom ;
Shall be thy doom!
ANCIENT AND MODERN PRODUCTIONS.
BY C. SUMNER.
1. The classics possess a peculiar charm, from the circumstance that they have been the models, I might almost say the masters, of composition and thought in all ages. In the contemplation of these august teachers of mankind, we are filled with conflicting emotions. They are the early voice of the world, better remembered and more cherished still than all the intermediate words that have been uttered, as the lessons of childhood still haunt us when the impressions of later years have been effaced from the mind. But they show with most unwelcome frequency the tokens of the world's childhcod, before passion had yielded to the sway of reason and the affections. They want the highest charm of purity, of righteousness, of elevated sentiments, of love to God and man.
2. It is not in the frigid philosophy of the porch and academy that we are to seek these ; not in the marvellous teachings of Socrates, as they come mended by the mellifluous words of Plato; not in the resounding line of Homer, on whose inspiring tale of blood Alexander pillowed his head; not in the animated strain of Pindar, where virtue is pictured in the successful strife of an athlete at the Isthmian games; not in the torrent of Demosthenes, dark with self-love and the spirit of vengeance; not in the fitful philosophy and intemperate eloquence of Tully; not in the genial libertinism of Horace, or the stately atheism of Lucretius. No; these must not be our masters; in none of these are we to seek the
way of life. For eighteen hundred years the spirit of these writers has been engaged in weaponless contest with the Sermon on the Mount, and those two sublime commandments on which bang all the law and the prophets. The strife is still pending. Heathenism, which has possessed itself of such siren forms, is not yet exorcised. It still tempts the young, controls the affairs of active life, and haunts the meditations of age.
3. Our own productions, though they may yield to those of the ancients in the arrangement of ideas, in method, in beauty of form, and in freshness of illustration, are immeasurably superior in the truth, delicacy, and elevation of their sentiments,above all, in the benign recognition of that great Christian revelation, the brotherhood of man. How vain are eloquence and poetry compared with this heaven-descended truth! Put in one scale that simple utterance, and in the other the lore of antiquity with its accumulating glosses and commentaries, and the last will be light and trivial in the balance. Greek poetry has been likened to the song of the nightingale as she sits in the rich, symmetrical crown of the palm-tree, trilling her thick-warbled notes; but even this is less sweet and tender than the music of the human heart.
BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
1. THE warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his heart of
fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprison'd sire; “I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord: oh, break my father's
2. “Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransom'd man this
day : Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way." Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. 3. And, lo! from far, as on they press’d, there came a glittering
band, With one that midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; “Now haste, Bernardo, haste; for there, in very truth, is he,The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd so long to see.” 4. His dark eye flash'd; his proud breast heaved; his cheeks' blood
came and went; He reach'd that gray-hair'd chieftain's side, and there, dismount
ing, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent; his father's hand he took : What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook ? 5. That hand was cold,-a frozen thing: it dropp'd from his like
lead; He look'd up to the face above,—the face was of the dead. A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fix'd and
white; He met at last his father's eyes, but in them was no sight. 6. Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, —but who could
paint that gaze? They hush'd their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze: They might have chain'd him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the 7. “Father," at length he murmur'd low, and wept like child
bood then; Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike 'men! He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown; He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. 8. Then, covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful
brow:“No more, there is no more,” he said, “ to lift the sword for My king is false, my hope betray'd, my father, oh, the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are pass'd away from earth! 9. “I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside
thee yet! I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! Thou wouldst have known my spirit then,-for thee my
fields were won; And thou hast perish'd in thy chains as though thou hadst no
10. Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the
monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all that courtier-train; And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face,—the king before the dead. 11. “Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss ? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king, and tell me, what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-give answer: where
are they? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this
cold clay. 12. “Into these glassy eyes put light;—be still, keep down thine
ire ! Bid those white lips a blessing speak,—this earth is not my sire ; Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my
blood was Thou canst not? and a king ? His dust be mountains on thy head!” 13. He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell; upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turn'd from that sad
place; His hope was crush’d, his after-fate untold in martial strain, His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.
PEDANTS SEEKING PATRONAGE.
DIGIT, a mathematician; TRILL, a musician; SESQUIPEDALIA,
a linguist and philosopher; DRONE, a servant of Mr. Morrell, in whose house the scene is laid.
Digit, alone. Digit. If theologians are in want of a proof that mankind are daily degenerating, let them apply to me, Archimedes Digit. I can furnish them with one as clear as any demonstration in Euclid's third or fifth book; and it is this :—the sublime and exalted science of Mathematics is falling into general disuse. Oh, that the patriotic inhabitants of this extensive country should suffer so degrading a circumstance to exist !
Why, yesterday I asked a lad of fifteen which he preferred, Algebra or Geometry ; and he told me-oh, horrible ! he told me he had never studied them! I was thunder-struck; I was astonished; I was petrified ! Never studied Geometry! never studied Algebra and fifteen years old! The dark ages are returning. Heathenish obscurity will soon overwhelm the world, unless I do something immediately to enlighten it; and for this purpose I have now applied to Mr. Morrell, who lives here, and is celebrated for his patronage of learning and learned men. (A knock at the door.) Who waits there?
(Enter DRONE.) Is Mr. Morrell at home?
Drone. (Speaking very slowly.) Can't say; s'pose he is; indeed, I am sure he is, or was just now.
Digit. Why, I could solve an equation while you are answering a question of five words, I mean, if the unknown terms were all on one side of the equation. Can I see him ?
Drone. There is nobody in this house by the name of Quation.
Digit. (Aside.) Now, here's a fellow that cannot distinguish between an algebraic term and the denomination of his master! (Aloud.) I wish to see Mr. Morrell upon an affair of infinite importance.
Drone. Oh, very likely, sir. I will inform him that Mr. Quation wishes to see him (mimicking) upon an affair of infinite importance.
Digit. No, no. Digit—Digit. My name is Digit.