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VERE lay upon the ocean's shore
What once a

tortoise served to cover. A year and more, with rush and roar,

The surf had rolled it over,
Had played with it, and flung it by,

As wind and weather might decide it,
Then tossed it high, where sand-drifts dry

Cheap burial might provide it.


It rested there to bleach or tan,

The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman

Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay,

Conjecturing with her brother, How in their play the poor estray

Might serve some use or other.


So there it lay, through wet and dry,

As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury,

And, having mused upon it, "Why here," cried he, "the thing of things,

In shape, material, and dimension! Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings,

A wonderful invention!


So said, so done; the chords he strained,

And, as his fingers o'er them hovered,
The shell disdained a soul had gained,

The lyre had been discovered.
O empty world that round us lies,

Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,
Brought we but eyes like Mercury's,
In thee what songs should waken!





Y LORDS—I rise with astonishment to see these

papers brought to your table at so late a period of this business; papers, to tell us what? Why, what all the world knew before; that the Americans, irritated by repeated injuries, and stripped of their inborn rights and dearest privileges, have resisted, and entered into associations for the preservation of their common liberties.

2. Had the early situation of the people of Boston been attended to, things would not have come to this. But the infant complaints of Boston were literally treated like the capricious squalls of a child, who, it was said, did not know whether it was aggrieved or not. But full well I knew at that time that this child, if not redressed, would soon assume the courage and voice of a man. Full well I knew that the sons of ancestors, born under the same free constitution, and once breathing the same liberal air, as Englishmen, would resist upon the same principles and on the same occasions.

3. What has government done? They have sent an armed force, consisting of seventeen thousand men, to dragoon the Bostonians into what is called their duty; and, so far from once turning their eyes to the impolicy and destructive consequence of this scheme, are constantly sending out more troops. And we are told, in the language of menace, that, if seventeen thousand men won't do, fifty thousand shall.

4. It is true, my lords, with this force they may ravage the country, waste and destroy as they march; but in the progress of fifteen hundred miles can they occupy the places they have passed? Will not a country which can produce three millions of people, wronged and insulted as they are, start up, like hydras, in every corner, and gather fresh strength from fresh opposition ? Nay, what dependence can you have upon the soldiery, the unhappy engines of your wrath? They are Englishmen, who must feel for the privileges of Englishmen. Do you think that these men can turn their arms against their brethren? Surely not. A victory must be to them a defeat; and carnage, a sacrifice.

5. But it is not merely three millions of people, the produce of America, we have to contend with in this unnatural struggle; many more are on their side, dispersed over the face of this wide empire. Every whig in this country and in Ireland is with them. Who, then, let me demand, has given, and continues to give, this strange and unconstitutional advice?

6. I do not mean to level at any one man, or any particular set of men; but thus much I will venture to declare, that if His Majesty continues to hear such counselors, he will not only be badly advised, but undone. He may continue, indeed, to wear his crown; but it will not be worth his wearing. Robbed of so principal a jewel as America, it will lose its luster, and no longer beam that effulgence which should irradiate the brow of majesty.

7. In this alarming crisis, I come, with this paper in my hand, to offer you the best of my experience and advice; which is, that an humble petition be presented to His Majesty, beseeching him, that, in order to open the way towards a happy settlement of the dangerous troubles in America, it may graciously please him that immediate orders be given to General Gage for removing His Majesty's forces from the town of Boston.

8. And this, my lords, upon the most mature and deliberate grounds, is the best advice I can give you at this juncture. Such conduct will convince America that you mean to try her cause in the spirit of freedom and inquiry, and not in letters of blood. There is no time to be lost Every hour is big with danger. Perhaps, while I am now speaking, the decisive blow is struck, which may involve millions in the consequence. And, believe me, the very first drop of blood which is shed will cause a wound which may never be healed.




Simon KEMPTHORN, a sea-captain, under bonds to take some Quakers back to Barbadoes. EDWARD BUTTER, Treasurer of the Commonwealth.

Scene.—The Tavern of the Three Mariners, Boston, 1665.
Kempthorn. A dull life this,-a dull life, anyway!

Ready for sea; the cargo all aboard,
Cleared for Barbadoes, and a fair wind blowing
From nor’-nor'-west; and I, an idle lubber,
Laid neck and heels by that confounded bond!
I said to Ralph, says I, “What's to be done?”
Says he: “Just slip your hawser in the night;
Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon.”
But that won't do, because, you see,

the owners
Somehow or other are mixed up with it.

Enter Edward Butter with an ear-trumpet.
Butter. Good-morning, Captain Kempthorn.

Sir, to you.
You've the advantage of me. I don't know


may I call your name?

That's not your name?
Kemp. Yes, that's my name. What's yours?

My name is Butter.
I am the treasurer of the Commonwealth.

Kemp. Will you be seated ?

What say? Who's conceited?
Kemp. Will you sit down?

0, thank you.

Spread yourself
Upon this chair, sweet Butter.

Butter (sitting down). A fine morning.

Kemp. Nothing's the matter with it that I know of.
I have seen better, and I have seen worse.
The wind's nor'-west. That's fair for them that sail.

Butter. You need not speak so loud; I understand you. You sail to-day.

Kemp. No, I don't sail to-day.
So, be it fair or foul, it matters not.
Say, will you smoke? There's choice tobacco here.

Butter. No, thank you. It's against the law to smoke.

Kemp. Well, almost everything's against the law Iy this good town. Give a wide berth to one thing, You're sure to fetch up soon on something else.

Butter. And so you sail to-day for dear Old England ?
I am not one of those who think a sup
Of this New England air is better worth
Than a whole draft of our Old England's ale.

Kemp. Nor I. Give me the ale and keep the air.
But, as I said, I do not sail to-day.

Butter. Ah, yes; you sail to-day.

I'm under bonds
To take some Quakers back to the Barbadoes;
And one of them is banished, and another
Is sentenced to be hanged.

No, all are pardoned,
All are set free by order of the Court;
But some of them would fain return to England.
You must not take them. Upon that condition
Your bond is canceled.

Ah, the wind has shifted!
I pray you, do you speak officially?

Butter. I always speak officially. To prove it,
Here is the bond. (Rising and giving a paper.)

Кетр. And here's my hand upon it.
And, look you, when I say I'll do a thing
The thing is done. Am I now free to go?

Butter. What say?
Кетр. I say, confound the tedious man,
With his strange speaking-trumpet! Can I go?

Butter. You ’re free to go, by order of the Court.
Your servant, sir. (

(Exit.] Kemp. (Shouting from the window.) Swallow, ahoy! Hallo!

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