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To its just point-the service of mankind.
He that attends to his interior self,

That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks
A social, not a dissipated life-

Has business: feels himself engaged t' achieve
No unimportant, though a silent task.

A life all turbulence and noise may seem,
To him that leads it, wise, and to be praised;
But wisdom is a pearl with most success
Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies.
He that is ever occupied in storms,
Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,
Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize.

COWPER.

THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

GATHER him to his grave again,
And solemnly and softly lay,
Beneath the verdure of the plain,

The warrior's scatter'd bones away.
Pay the deep reverence taught of old,
The homage of man's heart to death;
Nor trifle even with the mould

Once quicken'd by the Almighty's breath.

The soul hath hallow'd every part:
That remnant of a martial brow,
Those ribs that held a mighty heart,

That strong arm-Ah! 't is strengthless now.
Spare them-each mouldering fragment spare
"Of God's own image; let them rest
Till not a trace shall speak of where
The awful likeness was impress'd.

For he was fresher from the hand

That form'd of earth the human face,
And to the elements did stand

In nearer kindred than our race.
In many a flood to madness tost,
In many a storm has been his path,
He hid him not from heat or frost,
But met them, and defied their wrath.

Then were they kind-the forest here,
Rivers and stiller waters, paid
A tribute to the net and spear

Of the red ruler of the shade.
Fruits on the woodland branches lay,
Roots in the shaded mould below;
The stars look'd forth to teach his way,
The still earth warn'd him of the foe.

A nobler race! but they are gone,
With their old forests wide and deep,
And we have built our homes upon
Fields where their generations sleep.
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon,
Upon their hills our harvest waves,
Our lovers woo beneath their moon,
Ah, let us spare at least their graves!

BRYANT

THE GAMBLER.

THERE was & mansion of the olden style,
High on an eminence that overlook'd

The vine-hills, gardens, and the winding streams
And rivers, and the pleasant valleys green
Of sunny France. "T was fashion'd to the taste
Of bygone years, and still remain'd untouch'd
By time. It had been the abode of wealth
And grandeur, and within its antique walls

Old men had bow'd their silver heads in death,
And children sprang to manhood, and so pass'd
Away with age as nature bids, till those

Broad rich domains had number'd with their lords,
The bravest of the brave, whose cherish'd names
The minstrel wove in songs of valiant deeds,
With sword and lance in holy Palestine.

The sun arose above the fair blue hills,
Dispersing from their brows the light gray mists,
And opening the gay flowers, and kissing dews
From their fresh leaves, and drawing forth their

sweets.

His bright beams through the lofty casement stream'd
Into the wide and tapestried chamber, where
Eugene reclined upon a couch, like one
Fatigued by anxious watching. It was he-
That did possess this vast inheritance.

His downcast eyes, subdued and sad, were bent
Upon the carpet in a thoughtful gaze.
His dark locks fell upon his lofty brow,
Disturb'd, not by the pillow, for unpress'd
For two nights it had been. The long-drawn sigh
Betray'd the sorrow rankling in his heart;
And the wan cheek from which the rose had fled,
Perhaps for ever, and the drooping lid

Of those once brilliant eyes, too truly spoke
Of long hours spent in wretched wakefulness.
The well-curved lips no longer wore the bright
And pleasant smile that nature gave t' express
So winningly the sweetness of his soul.
Their colour too was gone; a livid hue,
Like that implanted by the touch of death,
Was only left upon their quivering forms.

Beside him sat the jewel of his heart,
The object cherish'd from his youth, on whom
He had bestow'd his wealth of love, and whom,
Above all earthly things, ay, fortune, fame,
He richly prized. Her fair arm softly leant

On his, and with a tenderness she gazed
Upon his troubled features, while she smoothed
The damp hair from his forehead with a hand
Of marble whiteness. She too was dismay'd;
Her countenance betray'd a spirit grieved
And tortured by a throng of sadden'd thoughts.

There stood a child, light-hearted, lisping words
In mirthful innocence, and mingling them
In playfulness with names of those she loved;
And offering to her father a bouquet
Of roses, violets, and myrtle buds,

Which she had cull'd while yet the morning dew
Beam'd on the foliage, and together bound
Their stems; and as they were unnoticed all,
And she was greeted with no soft caress,
The pearly tears roll'd down her damask cheek,
And on his face she look'd complacently,
And in a tone of sorrow kindly spoke,
And placed the flowers upon his bosom; when,
As from a slumber roused, he raised his head,
And with an effort, looking on his child,
He smiled, and gently stroked her flaxen hair,
And would have spoken, but his gloomy thoughts
Return'd to their dark channel, ere a word
Had pass'd his trembling lips. He quickly drew
A silken purse, in which remain'd but one
Small solitary coin. "T was near the last
Of his once ample fortune, which the hope
Of gain, illusive as an April sky,

Had bid him venture in the play. His eye
Shone with its wonted lustre, while the toy
Was swinging in the air, and with a smile
That for a moment lighted up his cheek
He look'd upon his wife, and mildly said:
"My love, behold my fate has made me poor;
Nay, start not! we have gold remaining yet,
And I shall hie me to the game again,
When Fortune, fickle as the autumn winds
Like a repentant lover will prove kind,

And bless the hazard. Yes, once more I go
With borrow'd means-detain me not-I must
Away 't is for thy good and for our child's-
We are but beggars now, I'll make you rich!"

The hour of midnight was at hand, when through
The chamber where the gathering was, the lamps,
Neglected and untrimm'd, burn'd low and glared
Their sombre light upon the shadowy walls.
There was a table centred in the room,

On which lay cards and heaps of golden coin
Profusely scatter'd, while a splendid purse,
With undrawn strings, half buried with the wealth
It once contain'd, and costly pocket-books
Were thrown aside unclosed; and on each end
A richly fretted candlestick was placed,
Whose wick sent high its spire of flame and smoke
From out the socket, and lit up the pale
And fiend-like features of the four that sat
Reclining forward with an earnestness,
And gazing on the cards with blood-shot eyes
Intently, and with skilful fingers dealt

To recommence the play, with thousands staked
Upon the issue. "T was the last for him,
The hated one of Fortune, who had seen
The waste of his inheritance, and still
Clung with a tiger's fierceness to the game
He knew not, while a ray of hope yet beam'd
Upon his mind. His light and delicate frame,
Unused to tedious watchings, that had been
From childhood nursed in luxury and ease,
Exhausted, nerved itself anew. His cheek,
Death-like and hollow, gather'd a new flush
Of fitful redness; and his sunken eye

Strain'd up its swollen lids, from whose fiery balls,
Deep-vein'd with blood, the dim lamp's ruddy light
Brought out a maniac stare unfix'd and wild-
His dark hair loosely hung upon his wan

And beating temples, shadowing their white hue,
And as the current of his thoughts went on,

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