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seemed to pierce even the resolute heart of the defendant. The ladies in the galleries, unaccustomed to such displays of eloquence, excited by the solemnity of the occasion, and

perhaps not unwilling to display their taste and sensi5 bility, were in a state of uncontrollable emotion. Hand

kerchiefs were pulled out; smelling-bottles were handed round; hysterical sobs and screams were heard; and Mrs. Sheridan was carried out in a fit.

At length the orator concluded. Raising his voice, till 10 the old arches of Irish oak resounded, “ Therefore,” said

he, “ hath it with all confidence been ordered by the Commons of Great Britain, that I impeach Warren Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. I impeach him in the

name of the Commons' House of Parliament, whose trust 15 he has betrayed. I impeach him in the name of the Eng

lish nation, whose ancient honor he has sullied. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose rights he has trodden under foot, and whose country he

has turned into a desert. Lastly, in the name of humar 20 nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of

every age, in the name of every rank, I impeach the common enemy and oppressor of all.”

CVII.

- LINES TO A CHILD, ON HIS VOYAGE TO FRANCE, TO MEET HIS FATHER.

WARE.

(HENRY WARE, JR., was born in Hingham, Massachusetts, April 21, 1794, and died September 25, 1843. He was a settled clergyman in Boston from 1817 to 1829, and afterwards professor in the theological school at Cambridge. He published many essays and discourses on moral and religious subjects, and a sew pieces of poetry. Ile was a man of ardent piety, an earnest and excellent preacher, and alwavs controlled by the highest sense of duty. His prose writings are marked by simplicity, directness, and strong religious feeling; and the few pocins he wrote show poetical powers of no common order,

The following lines originally appeared in the “Christian Disciple.”]

1

Lo! how impatiently upon the tide
The proud ship tosses, eager to be free.
Her flag streams wildly, and her fluttering sails
Pant to be on their flight. A few hours more,
And she will move in stately grandeur on,
Cleaving her path majestic through the flood,
As if she were a goddess of the deep.

2 O, 't is a thought sublime, that man can force

A path upon the waste, can find a way
Where all is trackless, and compel the winds,
Those freest agents of Almighty power,
To lend their untamed wings, and bear him on
To distant climes. Thou, William, still art young,
And dost not see the wonder. Thou wilt tread
The buoyant deck, and look upon the flood,
Unconscious of the high sublimity,
As ’t were a common thing — thy soul unawed,
Thy childish sports unchecked; while thinking man
Shrinks back into himself — himself so mean
Mid things so vast — and, rapt in deepest awe,
Bends to the might of that mysterious Power,
Who holds the waters in his hand, and guides
The ungovernable winds. — 'T is not in man
To look unmoved upon that heaving waste,
Which, from horizon to horizon spread,
Meets the o'erarching heavens on every side,
Blending their hues in distant faintness there.

3

'T is wonderful !-- and yet, my boy, just such
Is life. Life is a sea as fathomless,
As wide, as terrible, and yet sometimes
As calm and beautiful. The light of Heaven
Smiles on it, and 't is decked with

every

hue
Of glory and of joy. Anon, dark clouds
Arise, contending winds of fate go forth,
And hope sits weeping o'er a general wreck.

4

Eventful voyage.

And thou must sail upon this sea, a long,

The wise may suffer wreck,
The foolish must.

0! then be early wise !
Learn from the mariner his skilful art
To ride upon the waves, and catch the breeze,
And dare the threatening storm, and trace a path
Mid countless dangers, to the destined port,
Unerringly secure.

O! learn from him
To station quick-eyed Prudence at the helm,
To guard thy sail from Passion's sudden blasts,
And make Religion thy magnetic guide,
Which, though it trembles as it lowly lies,
Points to the light that changes not, in Heaven.

5

Farewell Heaven smile propitious on thy course,
And favoring breczes waft thee to the arms
Of love paternal. Yes, and more than this
Blest be thy passage o'er the changing sca
Of life; the clouds be few that intercept
The light of joy ; the waves roll gently on
Beneath thy bark of hope, and bear thee safe
To meet in peace thine other father, — God.

CVIII. — THE DEATH OF HAMILTON.

NOTT.

[ELIPILALET Nort was born in Ashford, Connecticut, June 25, 1773, and died January 29, 1806. He was chosen president of Union College in 1804, and was previously pastor of a church in Albany. It was there that he preached the sermon, of which the following is a portion. It produced a great effect, as the whole nation was deeply moved at the death of Alexander Hamilton, an eminent statesman and soldier, who was killed in a duel by Aaron Burr, July 11, 1804. Dr. Nott published “ Lectures on Temperance,” and “Counsels to Young Men,” and spent much time in experiments and researches connected with the application of the laws of heat to the arts of life.]

A short time since, and he, who is the occasion of our sorrows, was the ornament of his country. He stood on

an eminence, and glory covered him. From that eminence he has fallen, suddenly, forever fallen. His intercourse with the living world is now ended; and those

who would hereafter find him, must seek him in the grave. 5 There, cold and lifeless, is the heart which just now was

the seat of friendship; there, dim and sightless, is the eye whose radiant and enlivening orb beamed with intelligence; and there, closed forever, are those lips on whose

persuasive accents we have so often and so lately hung 10 with transport.

From the darkness which rests upon his tomb there proceeds, methinks, a light, in which it is clearly seen that those gaudy objects which men pursuc are only phantoms.

In this light how dimly shines the splendor of vistory! 15 how humble appears the majesty of grandeur! The bub

ble, which seemed to have so much solidity, has burst; and we again see that all below the sun is vanity.

True, the funeral eulogy has been pronounced, the sad and solemn procession has moved, the badge of mourning 20 has already been decreed, and presently the sculptured

marble will lift up its front, proud to perpetuate the name of Hamilton, and rehearse to the passing traveller his virtucs (just tributes of respect, and, to the living, useful);

but to him, mouldering in his narrow and humble habita25 tion, what are they? How vain! how unavailing!

Approach, and behold, while I lift from his sepulchre its covering! Ye admirers of his greatness ! ye emulous of his talents and his famel approach and behold him

now! How pale! how silent! No martial bands admire 30 the adroitness of his movements; no fascinating throng

weep and melt and tremble at his eloquence! Amazing change! a shroud ! a cofin! a narrow, subterraneous cabin !- this is all that now remains of Hamilton! And is

this all that remains of Hamilton ? During a life so 35 transitory, what lasting monument, then, can our fondest

hopes erect!

My brethren, we stand on the borders of an awful gulf, which is swallowing up all things human. And is there, amidst this universal wreck, nothing stable, nothing abid

ing, nothing immortal, on which poor, frail, dying man 5 can fasten? Ask the hero, ask the statesman, whose wisdom

you have been accustomed to revere, and he will tell you. He will tell you, did I say? He has already told you, from his death-bed; and his illumined spirit still

whispers from the heavens, with well known eloquence, 10 the solemn admonition: “Mortals hastening to the tomb,

and once the companions of my pilgrimage, take warning and avoid my errors ; cultivate the virtues I have recommended; choose the Saviour I have chosen ; live disinterestedly; live for immortality; and would you rescue anything from final dissolution, lay it up in God.”

CIX. — THE INDIANS.

CITARLES SPRAGUE.

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1 Yet while, by life's endearments crow

owned,
To mark this day we gather round,
And to our nation's founders raise

The voice of gratitude and praise,
Shall not one line lament that lion race,
For us struck out from sweet creation's face?
Alas, alas for them!— those fated bands,
Whose monarch tread was on these broad, green lands.
Our fathers called them savage, — them, whose bread,
In the dark hour those famished fathers fed.

2 We call them savage. O, be just !

Their outraged feelings scan;
A voice comes forth, — 't is from the dust,

The savage was a man !

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