On Britain still he cast a filial eye; And lawless acts of ministerial power; Op'd Op'd the wide range of nature's boundless plan, Crowds rose to vengeance while his accents rung, SPEECH of BUONAPARTE, COMMANDER IN CHIEF OF THE FRENCH ARMY IN ITALY, TO HIS BRETHREN IN ARMS. SOLDIERS, OU are precipitated like a torrent from the heights of the Appenines; you have overthrown and dispersed all that dared to oppose your march. Piedmont, rescued from Austrian tyranny, is left to its natural sentiments of regard and friendship to the French. Milan is yours; and the republican standard is displayed throughout all Lombardy. The dukes of Parma and Modena are indebted for their political existence only to your generosity. The army, which so proudly menaced you, has had no other barrier than its dissolution to oppose your invincible courage. The Po, the Tessen, the Adda, could not retard you a single day. The vaunted bulwarks of Italy were insufficient. You swept them with the same rapidity that you did the Appenines. Those successes have carried joy into the bosom of your country. Your representatives decreed a festival dedicated to your victories, and to be celebrated throughout all the communes of the republic. Now your fathers, your mothers, your wives, and your sisters, will rejoice in your success, and take pride in their relation to you. Yes, soldiers, you have done much; but more still remains for you to do. Shall it be said of us, that we know how to conquer, but not to profit by our victories? Shall posterity reproach us with having found a Capua in Lombardy? But already I see you fly to arms. You are fatigued with an inactive repose. You lame the days that are lost to your glory! Well, then, then, let us proceed; we have other forced marches to make; other enemies to subdue; more laurels to acquire, and more injuries to avenge. Let those who have unsheathed the daggers of civil war in France; who have basely assassinated our min isters; who have burnt our ships at Toulon ; let them tremble! the knell of vengeance has already tolled! But to quiet the apprehensions of the people, we declare ourselves the friends of all, and particularly of those who are the descendants of Brutus, of Scipio, and those other great men whom we have taken for our models. To re-establish the capital; to replace the statues of those heroes who have rendered it immortal; to rouse the Roman people entranced in so many ages of slavery; this shall be the fruit of your victories. It will be an epoch for the admiration of posterity; you will enjoy the immortal glory of changing the aspect of affairs in the finest part of Europe. The free people of France, not regardless of moderation, shall accord to Europe a glorious peace; but it will indemnify itself for the sacrifices of every kind which it has been making for six years past. You will again be restored to your fire-sides and homes; and your fellow-citizens, pointing you out, shall say, "There goes one who belonged to the army of Italy !" REFLECTIONS OVER THE GRAVE OF A YOUNG ΜΑΝ. HE ERE lies the grief of a fond mother, and the blasted expectation of an indulgent father. The youth grew up, like a well watered plant; he shot deep, rose high; and bade fair for manhood. But just as the cedar began to tower, and promised ere long, to be the pride of the wood, and prince among the neighbouring trees, behold! the axe is laid unto the root; be the fatal blow struck; and all its branching honors tumbled to the dust. And did he fall alone? No.: the hopes of his father that begat him, and the pleasing prospects of her that bare him, fell, and were crushed together with him. Doubtless it would have pierced one's heart, to have beheld the tender parents following the breathless youth to his long home. Perhaps, drowned in tears, and all overwhelmed with sorrows, they stood, like weeping statues, on this very spot. Methinks I see the deeply-distressed mourners attending the sad solemnity. How they wring their hands, and pour forth floods from their eyes! Is it fancy? or do I really hear the passionate mother, in an agony of affliction, taking her final leave of the darling of her soul? Dumb she remained, while the awful obsequies were performing; dumb with grief, and leaning upon the partner of her woes. But now the inward anguish suggles for vent; it grows too big to be repressed. She advances to the brink of the grave. All her soul is in her eyes. She fastens one more look upon the dear doleful object, before the pit shuts its mouth upon him. And as she looks, she cries; in broken accents, interrupted by many a rising sob, she cries, Farewell, my son! my son! my only beloved! wouid to God I had died for thee! Farewell, my child and farewell all earthly happiness! I shall never more see good in the land of the living. Attempt not to comfort me. I will go mourning all my days, till my grey hairs come down with sorrow to the grave. In anger hear me, when I ask'd a son ? Ye dames of Egypt! happy! happy mothers! Joch. My son! my son! I cannot speak the rest. Ye who have lost them, or who fear to lose, Can only know my pangs! None else can guess them. But by a mother. Wherefore am I one? Mir. With many pray'rs thou didst request this soB, And Heav'n has granted him. Joch. O sad estate Of human wretchedness! so weak is man! "hat |