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Shine on, O sun! with golden light,
And spread thy mantle on the sea;
Thou art the glance of One more bright,
More pure, more glorious far than thee!


THE gospel requires men to do good. The very business of war is mischief and damage. The gospel requires men to forgive their enemies. Revenge is often the chief design of war. The gospel commands men to feed the poor and comfort the afflicted.

The sword drinks the blood of the afflicted, robs and plunders the poor, covers him with wounds, and leaves him half dead.

While the devout Christian sits pondering how he may comfort the sorrowful, enlighten the ignorant, and reform the wicked, the man of blood is contriving and plotting to vanquish yonder army, to ravage the country, covering the fields with the wounded and the dead.

The gospel forbids murder. Yes, it does. But is not this the grand purpose of war? Why else all the swords, and balls, and engines of death? - The combination of ten thousand men, to slay ten thousand, is not less murderous, than the resolution of one man to slay one man. Had Cain been a king, and marched an army to destroy his brother, would this have lessened his guilt?

Did God not include kings, when he said, “Thou shalt not kill ?” Did he not include their victorious legions? If one man may not commit murder, how many must unite to make it innocent and glorious ? May two-two hundred, two million?. Two million have no more right to murder and destroy, than two individuals.

When pure Christianity shall cover the earth, avarice and revenge will be extinguished ; ambition will be dethroned, and war expire. The acknowledged design of the christian religion is to induce men to love their enemies, to be like Jesus Christ, who resisted not evil. Is it possible for such a man, to seize his sword, and rush to the hill of battle? Can he bid the artillery blaze? Can he become the angel of death, and scatter plague and pestilence round the globe?

When rulers all possess this benevolence, who will proclaim the war? When commanders have this spirit, who will order the battle? When the mass of mankind have the spirit of Christ, where will soldiers be found ? Where will you find a man to slay his neighbour ?

The rendezvous is forsaken. The shrill piercing, hoarse rattling instruments; the harsh clattering sounds of martial bands, are silent, as the deserted field of battle, where death riots in dismal solitude. All are gone to the house of worship, to celebrate the jubilee of peace, to join in the song of angels.


What is that, mother?

The lark, my child. The morn has just looked out, and smiled, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away with the dew on his breast, .

And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays,
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.
What is that, mother?

The dove, my son.
And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove;
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother?

The eagle, my boy,
Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm, in his own mountain vigour relying ;
Breasting the dark storm ; the red bolt defying ;
His wing on the wind, and eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine ;
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.
What is that, mother?

The swan, my love.-
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down, by himself, to die.
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings.
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home.


'Twas night, and the farmer, his fireside near,

O'er a pipe quaffed his ale, stout and old; The hinds were in bed, when a voice struck his ear, * Let me in, I beseech you !" just so ran the prayer

“ Let me in !-I am dying with cold.”

To his servant, the farmer cried—“ Sue, move thy


Admit the poor wretch from the storm; For our chimney will not lose a jot of its heat, Although the night wanderer may there find a seat,

And beside our wood embers grow warm."

At that instant the gipsy-girl, humble in pace

Bent before him, his pity to crave : He, starting, exclaimed, “ wicked fiend, quit this

place! A parent's curse light on the whole gipsy race!

They have bowed me almost to the grave !" “Good sir, as our tribe passed the church-yard be


I just paused, the tuft graves to survey: I fancied the spot where my mother lies low, When suddenly came on a thick fall of snow

And I know not a step of my way.” “ This is craft !” cried the farmer, “if I judge


I suspect thy cursed gang may be near ; Thou wouldst open the doors to the ruffians of night; Thy eyes o'er the plunder now rove with delight,

And on me vith sly treachery leer!"

With a shriek-on the floor the young gipsy-girl


“ Help,” cried Susan, “ your child to uprear! Your long stolen child !-she remembers you well, And the terrors and joys in her bosom which swell,

Are too mighty for nature to bear !"



“But, Mr. Speaker, we have a right to tax America." Oh, inestimable right! Oh, wonderful transcendent right! the assertion of which has cost this country thirteen provinces, six islands, one hundred thousand lives, and seventy millions of money. Oh, invaluable right! for the sake of which we have sacrificed our rank among nations, our importance abroad, and our happiness at home! Oh, right! more dear to us than our existence, which has already cost us so much, and which seems likely to cost us our all. Infatuated man! miserable and undone country! not to know that the claim of right, without the power of enforcing it, is nugatory and idle. We have a right to tax America, the noble lord tells us ; therefore we ought to tax America. This is the profound logic which comprises the whole chain of his reasoning.

Not inferior to this was the wisdom of him who resolved to shear the wolf. What, shear a wolf! Have you considered the resistance, the difficulty, the danger of the attempt ? No, says the madman, I have considered nothing, but the right.-Man has a right of dominion over the beasts of the forest: and

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