Puslapio vaizdai

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be,
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh ;

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,-
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die!

5. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, 1809.-Rev. Charles Wolfe. B. in Dublin, 1791; d. 1823.

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams misty light,
And a lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him: But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring;
And we heard by the distant random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory! We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.



In running the mind along the long list of sincere and devout Christians, I cannot help lamenting that Newton had not lived to this day, to have had his shallowness filled up with this new flood of light, poured upon the world by Mr. Thomas Paine. But the subject is too awful for irony. I will speak plainly and directly. Newton was a Christian! Newton, whose

mind burst forth from the fetters cast by nature upon our finite conceptions ;-Newton, whose science was truth, and the foundations of whose knowledge of it was philosophy; not those visionary and arrogant presumptions which too often usurp its name, but philosophy resting upon the basis of mathematics, which, like figures, cannot lie ;-Newton, who carried the line and rule to the uttermost barrier of creation, and explored the principles by which, no doubt, all created matter is held together and exists.

Gentlemen, in the place we now sit to administer the justice of this great country, above a century ago, the never-to-be-forgotten Sir Matthew Hale presided, whose faith in Christianity is an exalted commentary upon its truth and reason, and whose life was a glorious example of its fruits in man, administering human justice with wisdom and purity, drawn from the pure fountain of the Christian dispensation, which has been, and will be, in all ages, a subject of the highest reverence and admiration. But it is said by the author that the Christian fable is but the tale of the more ancient superstitions of the world, and may be easily detected by a proper understanding of the mythologies of the heathens. Did Milton understand those mythologies? Was he less versed than Mr. Paine in the superstitions of the world? No; they were the subject of his immortal song; and though shut out from all recurrence to them, he poured them from the stores of a memory rich with all that man ever knew, and laid them in their order, as the illustration of real and exalted faith, the unquestionable source of that fervid

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genius which cast a sort of shade upon all the other works of man. But it was the light of the BODY only that was extinguished ;-"the celestial light shone inward, and enabled him to justify the ways of God to


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Thus you find all that is great, or wise, or splendid, or illustrious, among created beings,-all the minds gifted beyond ordinary nature, if not inspired by its universal Author for the advancement and dignity of the world,—though divided by distant ages, and by clashing opinions, distinguishing them from one another, yet joining, as it were, in one sublime chorus to celebrate the truths of Christianity, and laying upon its holy altars the never-failing offerings of their immortal wisdom.

2. THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND.-James Montgomery. B. 1771; d. 1855.

"-Matt. XXV., 40.

"Ye have done it unto me."

A poor wayfaring man of grief

Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief,

That I could never answer "Nay:
I had not power to ask his name,

Whither he went, or whence he came,
Yet there was something in his eye

That won my love, I knew not why.

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Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered ;-not a word he spake ;-
Just perishing for want of bread;

I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,

And ate, but gave me part again;
Mine was an Angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste

That crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him, where a fountain burst

Clear from the rock: his strength was gone: The heedless water mocked his thirst,

He heard it, saw it hurrying on :

I ran to raise the sufferer up:

Thrice from the stream he drained my cup, Dipped, and returned it running o'er ; I drank, and never thirsted more.

'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof:

I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof:

I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the hearth my bed, and seemed
In Eden's garden while I dreamed.

Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway side:
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirits and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment; he was healed:
I had myself a wound concealed;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And Peace bound up my broken heart.

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