638. RECITATIONS INSTEAD OF THEATRES. In its present state, the theatre-deserves no encouragement. It has nourished intemperance, and all vice. In saying this, I do not say that the amusement is radically, essentially evil. I can conceive of a theatre, which would be the noblest of all amusements, and would take a high rank, among the means of refining the taste, and elevating the character of a people. The deep woes, the mighty, and terrible passions, and the sublime emotions-of genuine tragedy, are fitted to thrill us with human sympathies, with profound interest in our nature, with a consciousness of what man can do, and dare, and suffer, with an awed feeling of the fearful mysteries of life. The soul of the spectator is stirred from its depths; and the lethargy, in which so many live, is roused, at least for a time, to some intenseness of thought, and sensibility. The drama answers a high purpose, when it places us in the presence of the most solemn, and striking event of human history, and lays bare to us the human heart, in its most powerful, appalling, glorious workings. But how little does the theatre accomplish its end? How often is it disgraced, by monstrous distortions of human nature, and still more disgraced by profaneness, coarseness, indelicacy, low wit, such as no woman, worthy of the name, can hear without a blush, and no man can take pleasure in-without self-degradation. Is it possible, that a christian, and a refined people, can resort to theatres, where exhibitions of dancing are given, fit only for brothels, and where the most licentious class in the community throng, unconcealed, to tempt, and destroy? That the theatre should be suffered to exist, in its present degradation, is a reproach to the community. Were it to fall, a better drama might spring up in its place. In the meantime, is there not an amusement, having an affinity with the drama, which might be usefully introduced among us? I mean, Recitations. A work of genius, recited by a man of fine taste, enthusiasm, and powers of elocution, is a very pure, and high gratification. Were this art cultivated, and encouraged, great numbers, now insensible to the most beautiful compositions, might be waked up to their excellence, and power. It is not easy to conceive of a more effectual way, of spreading a refined taste through a community. The drama, undoubtedly, appeals more strongly to the passions than recitation; but the latter brings out the meaning of the author more. Shakspeare, worthily recited, would be better understood than on the stage. Then, in recitation, we escape the weariness of listening to poor performers; who, after all, fill up most of the time at the theatre. Recitations, sufficiently varied, so as to include pieces of chaste wit, as well of pathos, beauty and sublimity, is adapted to our present intellectual progress, as much as the drama falls below it. Should this exhibition be introduced among us successfully, the result would be, that the power of recitation would be exten sively called forth, and this would be added to our social, and domestic pleasures.

Thou knowest but little,

639. waterLOO; THE BALL AND BATTLE. There was a sound of revelry-by night, And Belgium's capital-had gathered then Her beauty, and her chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women, and brave mer. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love, to eyes, which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; [knell! But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising Did ye not hear it?-No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car, rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet, To chase the glowing hours, with flying feetBut hark! That heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds-its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! [roar! Arm! arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed-at the praise of their own loveliness: And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs, Which ne'er might be repeated; for who could If ever more should meet, those mutual eyes, [guess, Since upon night, so sweet, such awful morn

could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car.
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum,
Roused up the soldier, ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips-"The foe! they
come! they come !"

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,-alas!
Ere evening, to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow,
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valor, rolling on the foe, [and low.
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold,
Last noon-beheld them, full of lusty life,
Last eve-in beauty's circle, proudly gay,
The midnight-brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn-the marshaling in arms,-the day,
Battle's magnificently-stern array!
[rent,
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped, and pent,
Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial

blent!

What's in the air? Some subtle spirit-runs through all my veins, Hope-seems to ride, this morning, on the wind, And outshines the sun.

When things go wrong, each fool presumes t' adAnd if more happy, thinks himelf more wise: [vise. All wretchedly deplore the present state;

640. FEVER DREAM.

A fever--scorched my body, fired my brain!
Like lava, in Vesuvius, boiled my blood,
Within the glowing caverns of my heart.

I raged with thirst, and begged a cold, clear draught

of fountain water.-Twas with tears, denied.

I drank a nauseous febrifuge, and slept;
But rested not-harassed with horrid dreams,
Of burning deserts, and of dusty plains,
Mountains, disgorging flames-forests on fire,
Steam, sunshine, smoke, and boiling lakes-
Hills of hot sand, and glowing stones, that seemned
Embers, and ashes, of a burnt up world!

Thirst raged within me.-I sought the deepest vale,
And called on all the rocks, and caves for water;-

I climbed a mountain, and from cliff to cliff,

Pursued a flying cloud, howling for water:

I crushed the withered herbs, and gnawed dry roots,

Still crying Water! water!-While the cliffs and caves,

In horrid mockery, re-echoed "Water!"

Below the mountain, gleamed a city, red

With solar flame, upon the sandy bank

Of a broad river.-"Soon, oh soon!" I cried,

"I'll cool my burning body in that flood,

And quaff my fill."-I ran-I reached the shore.-
The river was dried up. Its cozy bed
Was dust; and on its arid rocks, I saw
The scaly myriads-fry beneath the sun!
Where sunk the channel deepest, I beheld
A stirring multitude of human forms,
And heard a faint, wild, lamentable wail.
Thither I sped, and joined the general cry
Of "water!" They had delved a spacious pit,
In search of hidden fountains-sad, sad sight!

I saw them rend the rocks up in their rage
With mad impatience, calling on the earth
To open, and yield up her cooling fountains.
Meanwhile the skies, on which they dared not gaze,
Stood o'er them like a canopy of brass-
Undimmed by moisture. The red dog-star raged,
And Phoebus, from the house of Virgo, shot
His scorching shafts. The thirsty multitude
Grew still more frantic. Those, who dug the earth,
Fell lifeless on the rocks, they strained to upheave,
And filled again, with their own carcasses,
The pits they made-undoing their own work!
Despair, at length, drove out the laborers,

At sight of whom, a general groan-announced
The death of hope. Ah! now, no more was heard
The cry of "water!" To the city next,
Howling, we ran-all hurrying without aim:-
Thence to the woods. The baked plain gaped for moisture.
And from its arid breast heaved smoke, that seemed

The breath of furnace-fierce, volcanic fire,

Or hot monsoon, that raises Syrian sands

To clouds. Amid the forests, we espied

A faint, and bleating herd. Sudden, a shrill,

And horrid shout arose of "Blood! blood! blood!"

We fell upon them with the tiger's thirst,
And drank up all the blood, that was not human
We were dyed in blood! Despair returned;

The cry of blood was hushed, and dumb confusion reigned.
Even then, when hope was dead!-past hope-

I heard a laugh! and saw a wretched man

Rip ho own veina, and, bleeding, drink

With eager joy. The example seized on all :

Each fel, upon himself, tearing his veins,

Fiercely, in search of blood! And some there wer
Who, having emptied their own veins, did seize

Upon their neighbor's arms, and slew them for their blood-
Oh! happy then, were mother, who gave suck.
They dashed their little infants from their breasts,
And their shrunk bosoms tortured, to extract
The balmy juice, oh! exquisitely sweet

To their parched tongues! "Tis done!-now all is gone
Blood, water, and the bosom's nectar,-all!

Rend, oh! ve lightnings! the sealed firmament,

And food a turning world.-Rain! rain! pour! pour!
Open-yo windows of high heaven! and pour
The mighty deluge Let us drown, and drink

Luxurious death! Ye earthquakes, spl the globe,
The solid, rock-ribbed globe and .ay all bar
Its subterranean rivers, and fresh seas!"

Thus raged the multitude. And many fell
In fierce convulsions;-many slew themselves.
And now, I saw the city all in flames-
The forest burning-and the very earth on fire

I saw the mountains open with a roar,

Low as the seven apocalyptic thunders,

And seas of lava rolling headlong down,
Through crackling forests fierce, and hot as hell,
Down to the plain-I turned to fly,and waked!
641. NOSE AND THE MAN.

Kind friends, at your call, I'm come here to sing
Or rather to talk of my woes;

Though small's the delight to you I can bring
The subject's concerning my nose.

Some noses are large, and others are small,
For nature's vagaries are such,

To some folks, I'm told, she gives no nose at all,
But to me she has given too much.

Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!

My cause of complaint, and the worst of my woes, Is, because I have got such a shocking long nose. Some insult or other, each day I do meet,

And by joking, my friends are all foes;
And the boys every day, as I go thro' the street,
Ali bellow out-" There goes a nose!”

A woman, with matches one day, I came near,
Who, just as I tried to get by her,
Shoved me rudely aside, and ask'd, with a leer,
If I wanted to set her o'fire?

Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!
Each rascal, each day, some inuendo throws,
As, my nose is n't mine, I belongs to my nose.
I once went a courting a wealthy old maid,
To be married we were, the next day;
But an accident happened, the marriage delay'd,
My nose got too much in the way.
For the night before marriage, entranc'd with my
In love, e'er some torment occurs- [bliss

I screw'd up my lips, just to give her a kiss,
My nose slipp'd, and rubb'd against her's!

Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!

The ring that I gave, at my head soon she throws, And another tipp'd me, 'twas a w-ring on the nose. Like a porter all day, with fatigue fit to crack, I'm seeking for rest, at each place,

Or, like pilgrim of old, with his load at his back,
Only my load I bear on my face.

I can't get a wife, though each hour hard I try,
The girls they all blush, like a rose;
"I'm afraid to have you!" when I ask 'em for why?
Because, you have got such a nose.

Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!
Their cause of refusal I cannot suppose,
They all like the man, but they say- blow his nose!
Like a large joint of meat, before a small fire,
They say that my proboscis hangs-
Or, to a brass knocker, nought there can be nigher,
And in length, it a pump-handle bangs.

A wag, you must know, just by way of a wipc,
Said, with a grin on his face, t'other night,
As he, from his pocket, was pulling a pipe,
"At your nose will you give me a light?"
Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!

If I ask any one my way to disclose,

If I lose it—they answer, why, follow your nose.

642. NOBILITY OF LABOR. Why, in the great scale of things, is labor ordained for us? Easily, had it so pleased the great Ordainer, might it have been dispensed with. The world itself, might have been a mighty machinery, for producing all that man wants. Houses might have risen like an exhalation, "With the sound

Of dulcet symphonies, and voices sweet, Built like a temple." Gorgeous furniture might have been placed in them, and soft couches and luxurious banquets spread, by hands unseen; and man, clothed with fabrics of nature's weaving, rather than with imperial purple, might have been sent to disport himself in those Elysian palaces.

"Fair scene!" I imagine you are saying: "fortunate for us had it been the scene ordained for human life!" But where, then, had been human energy, perseverance, patience, virtue, heroism? Cut off labor with one blow, from the world, and mankind had sunk to a crowd of Asiatic voluptuaries.

No-it had not been fortunate! Better, that the earth be given to man as a dark mass, whereupon to labor. Better, that rude, and unsightly materials be provided in the ore-bed, and in the forest, for him to fashion in splendor and beauty. Better I say, not because of that splendor, and beauty, but, because the act of creating them, is better than the things themselves; because exertion is nobler than enjoyment; because the laborer is greater and more worthy of honor, than the idler.

I call upon those whom I address, to stand up for the nobility of labor. It is heaven's great ordinance for human improvement. Let not the great ordinance be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; and it has been broken down for ages. Let it then be built again; here, if any where, on the shores of a new world-of a new civilization.

But how, it may be asked, is it broken down? Do not men toil? it may be said. They do indeed toil, but they too generally do, because they must. Many submit to it, as in some sort, a degrading necessity; and they desire nothing so much on earth, as an escape from it. They fulfil the great law of labor in the letter, but break it in the spirit. To some field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should hasten, as a chosen, coveted field of improvement.

But so he is not compelled to do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in idleness. This way of thinking, is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system, under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away.

Ashamed to toil? Ashamed of thy dingy work-shop, and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hand, scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weatherstained garments, on which mother nature has embroidered mist, sun and rain, fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of those tokens, and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness, and vanity? It is treason to nature, it is impiety to heaven; it is breaking heaven's great ordinance. Toil, I repeat-toil, either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood,the only true nobility!-Dewey.

643. DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM. The king-stood still, Till the last echo-died: then, throwing off The sack-cloth-from his brow, and laying back The pall-from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe :"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die ! Thou, who wert made so beaut fully fair! That death-soould settle-in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this c3 stering hair! How could he mark thee-for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom!

Cold is thy brow, my son and I am chill,

As to my bosom-I have tried to press thee. How was I wont-to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet-my father,' from these
And cold lips, Absalom!
[dumb,

The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me-in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses-to the soft winds flung;
But thou-no more, with thy sweet voice, shall
To meet me, Absalom!
[come

But, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,

Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, [token!

Yearn for thine ear-to drink its last-deep It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, So see thee, Absalom!

And now-farewell! 'Tis hard-to give thee up, With death-so like a gentle slumber on thee. And thy dark sin!-oh! I could drink the cup,

If, from this wo, its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer,
My erring Absalom ?"
[home,

He covered up his face, and bowed himself,
A moment, on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands, convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up, calmly, and composed the pall,
Firmly, and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest-had been a breathing sleep. Willte.
The theatre was from the very first,
The favorite haunt of sin; though honest mer.,
Some very honest, wise and worthy men,
Maintained it might be turned to good account:
And so perhaps it might, but never was.
From first-to last-it was an evil piace:
And now-such things were acted there, as made
The devils blush: and, from the neighborhood,

Angels, and holy men, trembling, retired:
And what with dreadful aggravation-crowned
This dreary time, was-sin against the light.
All men knew God, and, knowing, disobeyed;
And gloried to insult him-to his face.
Look round-the habitable world, how few-
Know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue!
'Tis all men's office-to speak patience--
To those that toil-under a load of sorrow.
"This the first sanction-nature-gave to man.
Each other to assist, in what they can

644. MARCO BOZZARRIS.

He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the Lite of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were-"To die for liberty, is a pleasure, and not a pain."

At midnight,-in his guarded tent,

The Turk-was dreaming of the hour,
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble-at his power.

In dreams, through camp-and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then, wore his monarch's signet ring:
Then, pressed that monarch's throne,-a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight,-in the forest shades,
Bozzarris-ranged his Suliote band,
True-as the steel-of their tried blades,
Heroes-in heart-and hand.

There, had the Persian's thousands stood,
There, had the glad earth-drunk their blood,
On old Platea's day;

And now, there breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires, who conquered there,
With arm-to strike, and soul-to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on-the Turk-awoke-
That bright dream-was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke to die, 'midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,

And death-shots-falling thick and fast
As lightnings, from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice, as trumpet loud,
Bozzarris-cheer his band:

"Strike! till the last armed foe expires;
Strike! for your altars, and your fires;
Strike! for the green graves of your sires;
God-and your native land!""

They fought, like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground-with Moslem slain;
They conquered-but, Bozzarris fell,
Bleeding-at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang the proud-hurrah!
And the red field was won;

Then saw, in death, his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,
Like flowers-at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber,-Death!
Come to the mother-when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come-when the blessed seals,
That close the pestilence, are broke,
And crowded cities-wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;

Come, when the heart beats high, and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine-
And thou art terrible! the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know.-or dream, or fear,
Of agony, are thine.

But. to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice-sounds like a prophet's word,
And, in its hollow tones, are heard-

The thanks of millions-yet to be.
Bozzarris! with the storied brave,

Greece nurtured, in her glory's time,
Rest thee-there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
We tell thy doom-without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's-
One of the few, the immortal names,

Tae were not bora-to die.-Halleck

645. MAID OF MALA HIDE

In the church of Malahide, in Ireland, are the tomb and effigy of the Lady Maid Plunkett, sister of the first Lord Dunanny, of whom it is recorded that "she was maid, wife, and widow in on day." Her first husband, Hussy, Baron of Galtrim, was calle, from the altar to head "a hosting of the English against the Irish," and was brought back to the bridal banquet a corpse, upro the shields of his followers.

The dark-eyed Maid-of Malahide,

Her silken bodice laced,
And on her brow,-with virgin pride,
The bridal chaplet-placed.
Her heart--is beating high, her cheek
Is flushed-with rosy shame,
As laughing bridemaids-slily speak,
The gallant bridegroom's name.
The dark-eyed Maid-of Malahide-
Before the altar-stands,

And Galtrim-claims his blushing bride,
From pure and holy hands:-

But hark! what fearful sounds are those?
"To arms! to arms!" they cry;-
The bride's sweet cheek-no longer glows,
Fear-sits in that young eye.

The gallants-all are mustering now-
The bridegroom's helm-is on:
One look,-upon that wretched brow:
One kiss, and he is gone ;-
The feast is spread,-but many a knight
Who should have graced that hall-
Will sleep-anon, in cold moonlight,
Beneath a gory pall.

The garlands-bright with rainbow dyes
In gay festoons-are hung;
The starry lamps-out-shine the skies,
The golden harps are strung:
But she-the moving spring of all,
Hath sympathy-with none
That meet in that old festive hall ;--
And now-the feast's begun.
Hark! to the clang of arms! is 't he,
The bridegroom chief,-returned,-
Crowned-with the wreath of victory
By his good weapon-earned?
Victorious bands-indeed-return,—
But, on their shields-they bear-
The laurelled chief,-and melt-those steru -
At that young bride's despair.
"Take-take-the roses from my brow,
The jewels-from my waist;

I have no need of such things now :"
And then-her cheek-she placed-
Close-to his dead-cold cheek, and wept,- -

As one may wildly weep,

When the last hope,-the heart had kept,

Lies buried-in the deep.

Long years have passed,--since that young

Bewailed-her widowed doom:

[brise

The holy walls--of Malahide-
Still-shrine her marble tomb :-
And sculpture there-has sought to prove,
With rude essay-of art,

That form-she wore in life,-whose love

Did grace-her woman's heart.-Crawford The influence of example-is a terrible responsibility-on the shoulders of every in dividual