ROLLA'S ADDRESS TO THE PERUVIANS.
R. B. SHERIDAN.

My brave associates, partners of my toil, my feelings, and my fame! Can Rolla's words add vigor to the virtuous energies which inspire your hearts? No; you have judged as I have the foulness of the crafty plea by which these bold invaders would delude you. Your generous spirit has compared, as mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can animate their minds and ours.

They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, and extended rule; we, for our country, our altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and obey a power which they hate; we serve a monarch whom we love, a God whom we adore. Whene'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress! whene'er they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship.

They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error! Yes, they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. They offer us their protection. Yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs-covering and devouring them.

They call on us to barter all of good we have inherited. and proved, for the desperate chance of something better, which they promise. Be our plain answer this: The throne we honor is the people's choice; the laws we reverence are our brave fathers' legacy: the faith we follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, and tell them, too, we seek no change; and, least of all, such change as they would bring us.

THE BAGGAGE FIEND.

'Twas a ferocious baggage-man, with Atlantean back, And biceps upon each arm piled in a formidable stack, That plied his dread vocation beside a railroad track.

Wildly he tossed the baggage round the platform there, peil. mell,

And crushed to naught the frail bandbox where'er it shapeless fell,

Or stove the "Saratoga" like the flimsiest eggshell.

On ironclads, especially, he fell full ruthlessly,

And eke the trunk derisively called “Cottage by the Sea;" And pulled and hauled and rammed and jammed the same vindictively,

Until a yawning breach appeared, or fractures two or three, Or straps were burst, or lids fell off, or some catastrophe Crowned his satanic zeal or moved his diabolic glee.

The passengers surveyed the wreck with diverse discontent, And some vituperated him, and some made loud lament, But wrath or lamentation on him were vainly spent.

To him there came a shambling man, sad-eyed and meek and thin,

Bearing an humble carpet-bag, with scanty stuff therein, And unto that fierce baggage-man he spake, with quivering chin:

"Behold this scanty carpet-bag! I started a month ago, With a dozen Saratoga frunks, hat-box, and portmanteau, But baggage-men along the route have brought me down thus low.

"Be careful with this carpet-bag, kind sir," said he to him. The baggage-man received it with a smile extremely grim, And softly whispered "Mother, may I go out to swim?"

Then fiercely jumped upon that bag in wild, sardonic spleen, And into countless fragments flew-to his profound chagrinFor that lank bag contained a pint of nitro-glycerine.

The stranger heaved a gentle sigh, and stroked his quivering chin,

And then he winked with one sad eye, and said, with smile serene,

"The stuff to check a baggage man is nitro-glycerine!"

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD,
THOMAS GRAY.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour,-

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud! impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still, erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their names, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,-

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

“One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came-nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne:Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.