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On Britain still he cast a filial eye;
But sovereign fortitude his visage bore,
To meet their legions on the invaded shore.
Sage Franklin next arose, in awful mien,
And smil'd, unruffled, o'er th' approaching scene;
High, on his locks of age, a wreath was brac'd,
Palm of all arts, that e'er a mortal grac'd ;
Beneath him lies the sceptre kings have borne,
And crowns and laurels from their temples torn.
Nash, Rutledge, Jefferson, in council great,
And Jay and Laurens op'd the rolls of fate.
The Livingstons, fair freedom's gen'rous band,
The Lees, the Houstons, fathers of the land,
O'er climes and kingdoms turn'd their ardent eyes,
Bade all th' oppress'd to speedy vengeance rise;
All pow'rs of state, in their extended plan,
Rise from consent to shield the rights of man.
Bold Wolcott urg'd the all-important cause;
With steady hand the solemu scene he draws;
Undaunted firmness with his wisdom join'd,
Nor kings nor worlds could warp his steadfast mind.
Now, graceful rising from his purple throne,
In radiant robes, immortal Hosmer shone ;
Myrtles and bays his learned temples bound,
The statesman's wreath, the poet's garland crown'd:
Morals and laws expand his liberal soul,
Beam from his eyes, and in his accents roll.
But lo! an unseen hand the curtain drew,
And snatch'd the patriot from the hero's view;
Wrap'd in the shroud of death, he sees descend
The guide of nations and the muse's friend.
Columbus dropp'd a tear. The angel's eye
Trac'd the freed spirit mounting through the sky.
Adams, enrag'd, a broken charter, bore,

And lawless acts of ministerial power;
Some injur'd right in each loose leaf appears,
A king in terrors and a land in tears;
From all the guileful plots the veil he drew,
With eye retortive look'd creation through;

Op'd

Op'd the wide range of nature's boundless plan,
Trac'd all the steps of liberty and man;

Crowds rose to vengeance while his accents rung,
And independence thunder'd from his tongue.

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;

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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.

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In anger hear me, when I ask'd a son ?

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Ye dames of Egypt! happy! happy mothers!
No tyrant robs you of your fondest hopes;
You are not doom'd to see the babes you bore,
The babes you nurture, bleed before your eyes!
You taste the transports of maternal love,
And never know its anguish! Happy mothers!
How diff'rent is the lot of thy sad daughters,
O wretched Israel! Was it then for this?
Was it for this the righteous arm of God
Rescu'd his chosen people from the jaws
Of cruel want, by pious Joseph's care?
Joseph, th' elected instrument of Heav'n,
Decreed to save illustrious Abram's race,
What time the famine rag'd in Canaan's land.
Israel, who then was spar'd must perish now!
O thou mysterious Pow'r! who hast involv'd
Thy wise decrees in darkness, to perplex
The pride of human wisdom, to confound
The daring scrutiny, and prove the faith
Of thy presuming creatures! clear this doubt;
Teach me to trace this maze of Providence ;
Why save the fathers, if the sons must perish?
Miriam. Ah me, my mother! whence these floods
of grief?

Joch. My son! my son! I cannot speak the rest.
Ye who have sons can only know my fondness!

Ye who have lost them, or who fear to lose,

Can only know my pangs! None else can guess them.
A mother's sorrows cannot be conceiv'd,

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!
So ignorant and blind, that did not God
Sometimes withhold in mercy what we ask,
We should be ruin'd at our own request.
Too well thou know'st, my child, the stern decree
Of Egypt's cruel king, hard-hearted Pharaoh :

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