cient times, those, who mourned for national or individual sins, appeared in sackcloth and ashes. Shall they see their parents dressed out in the height of fashion, while they are PROFESSING to bow before the Lord their Maker, and to prostrate themselves in the dust, confessing their sins?
If we are invited to a funeral, we expect to find the relations serious and in mourning, not in their gayest attire, amusing their guests with songs and anecdotes.
Formerly, we expected some new dresses at Commencement; but now, the competition comes round every Sunday at farthest ; and on Saturday night, tailors, cordwainers, milliners, and mantua-makers, are hardly pressed in the pious work of preparing their customers for the Lord's day.
Men, Brethrer and Fathers! these things ought not to be so; and the day is near at hand, when you will thin about it as I do.
[Connecticut Herald. New-Haven.]
THERE is a sweetness in Woman's decay,
When the light of beauty is fading away,
When the bright enchantment of youth is gone,
And the tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone
And darted around its glance of power,
And the lip, that vied with the sweetest flower
That ever in Pæstum's* garden blew,
Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew,
When all that was bright and fair is fled,
But the loveliness lingering 'round the dead.
O! there is a sweetness in Beauty's close,
Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose;
For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays,
And a veil of spotless purity
Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly die,
Like a cloud, whereon the queen of night
Has pour'd her softest tint of light;
And there is a blending of white and blue,
Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek;
And there are tones that sweetly speak
Of a spirit, which longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing its flight away.
In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling,
When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing
* Biferique rosaria Pasti.-VIRG.
Its silent steps through a flowery path,
And all the endearments that Pleasure hath,
Are pour'd from her full, overflowing horn,
When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn,
In her lightness of heart to the cheery song
The maiden may trip in the dance along,
And think of the passing moment, that lies,
Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes,
And yield to the present, that charms around
With all that is lovely in sight and sound,
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit,
With the voice of mirth and the burst of wit,
And the music that steals to the bosom's core,
And the heart in its fullness flowing o'er
With a few big drops that are soon repress'd,
For short is the stay of grief in her breast;
In this enliven'd and gladsome hour
The spirit may burn with a brighter pow'r ;
But dearer the calm and quiet day,
When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away.
And when her sun is low declining,
And life wears out with no repining,
And the whisper, that tells of early death,
Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath,
When it comes at the hour of still repose
To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose,
And the lip, that swell'd with a living glow,
Is pale as a curl of new-fall'n snow,
And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair,
But the hectic spot that flushes there,-
When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling,
In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling,
And giving a tinge to her icy lips,
Like the crimson rose's brightest tips,
As richly red, and as transient too,
As the clouds in autumn's sky of blue,
That seem like a host of glory, met
To honour the sun at its golden set;—
O! then, when the spirit is taking wing,
How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling,
As if she would blend her soul with his
In a deep and long imprinted kiss:
So fondly the panting camel flies,
Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes,
And the dove from the falcon seeks his nest,
And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast.
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow from her cheek be fled,
And her pale lip cold as the marble dead,
Her eye still beams unwonted fires
With a woman's love, and a saint's desires,
And her last fond, lingering look is given
To the love she leaves, and then to Heaven,
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world and a brighter day.
A PLATONIC BACCHANAL SONG.
[Connecticut Journal.]
FILL high the bowl of life for me-
Let roses mantle round its brim,
While heart is warm, and thought is free,
Ere Beauty's light is waning dim-
Fill high with brightest draughts of Soul,
And let it flow with feeling o'er,
And Love, the sparkling cup, he stole
From Heav'n, to give it briskness pour.
O fill the bowl of life for me,
And wreath its dripping brim with flow'rs,
And I will drink, as lightly flee
Our early, unreturning hours.
Fill high the bowl of life with wine,
That swell'd the grape of Eden's grove,"
Ere human life, in its decline,
Had strow'd with thorns the path of Love-
Fill high, from virtue's crystal fount,
That springs beneath the throne of Heav'n,
And sparkles brightly o'er the mount,
From which our fallen souls were driven.
O fill the bowl of life with wine,
The wine, that charm'd the gods above,
And round its brim a garland twine,
That blossom'd in the bow'r of Love..
Fill high the bowl of life with spirit,
Drawn from the living Sun of Soul;
And let the wing of Genius bear it
Deep-glowing, like a kindled coal-
Fill high, from that ethereal treasure,
And let me quaff the flowing fire,
And know awhile the boundless pleasure,
That heav'n-lit fancy can inspire.
O fill the bowl of life with spirit,'
And give it brimming o'er to me,
And, as I quaff, I scem to inherit
The glow of immortality.
Fill high the bowl of life with thought
From that unfathomable well,
Which sages long and long have sought
To sound, but none its depths can tell-
Fill high from that dark stainless wave,
Which mounts and flows forever on,
And rising proudly o'er the grave,
There finds its noblest course begun.
O fill the bowl of life with thought,
And I will drink the bumper up,
And find, whate'er my wish had sought,
In that, the purest, sweetest cup.
THE GREEK EMIGRANT's SONG.
[From the same.]
Now launch the boat upon the wave-
The wind is blowing off the shore→→→→
I will not live, a cow'ring slave,
In these polluted islands, more—
Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea,
There is a better home for me.
The wind is blowing off the shore,
And out to sea the streamers fly-
My music is the dashing roar,
My canopy the stainless sky-
It bends above so fair a blue,
That Heav'n seems opening on my view.
I will not live, a cow'ring slave,
Though all the charms of life may shine
Around me, and the land, the wave,
And sky be drawn in tints divine-
Give low'ring skies and rocks to me,
If there my spirit can be free.
Sweeter than spicy gales, that blow
From orange groves with wooing breath,
The winds may from these islands flow,—
But 'tis an atmosphere of death;
The lotus, which transform'd the brave
And haughty to a willing slave.
Softer, than Minder's winding stream,
The wave may ripple on this coast;
And brighter than the morning beam,
In golden swell, be round it tost-
Give me a rude and stormy shore,
So Pow'r can never threat me more.
Brighter, than all the tales, they tell
Of Eastern pomp and pageantry,
Our sunset skies in glory swell,
Hung round with glowing tapestry-
The horrors of a winter storm
Swell brighter o'er a Freeman's form.
The Spring may here with Autumn twine,
And both combin'd may rule the year,
And fresh-blown flow'rs and racy wine
In frosted clusters still be near-
Dearer the wild and snowy hills,
Where hale and ruddy Freedom smiles.
Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea,
And ocean's stormy vastness o'er,
There is a better home for me,
A welcomer and dearer shore ;
There hands and hearts and souls are twin'd,
And free the Man, and free the mind.
LITERARY SPARRING, No. I.
[Charleston Courier.]
THE war between the United States and Great-Britain, attested by the fierce collision of arms and copious effusion of blood, has given way to a more harmless, but equally obstinate, warfare, in which ink furnishes the ammunition and the artillery are feathers. There can be no flag of truce among these gentry, for, whenever they fall in with any thing white, they proceed straightway to soil it with sable inscriptions. The victory will belong only to him, who shall have the largest papermill and the greatest quantity of ink-powder.
The subject of dispute is the North American continent, large enough, God knows, for a myriad of such combatants. The question is, whether so many square miles, and such a quantity of atmosphere, on this side of the Atlantic, can produce and exhibit the same intellectual vigour, as a fiftieth part of the same space produces on the other side of the Atlantic! so that each side of the question takes one side of the ocean; and the contending parties, when nearest each other, have only three thousand miles of salt water between them.
European writers began by over-rating and underrating us. They gave the soil too much credit for what
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