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gour 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. Whenever they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress!—Wherever they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship. They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge out thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error!-Yes they--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 honour 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 the 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.
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us ;
[Laying his hand on his sword.]
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH,
SHAKSPEARE. To be-or not to be?-that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune, ..... Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them?-To die-to sleep No more!- and by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ach, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation s Devoutly to be wish’d. To die—to sleep
To sleep?-perchance to dream!-ay, there's the
rub! For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takesWhen he himself might his quietus make, With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To groan and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death That undiscovered country, from whose bourne No traveller returns!-puzzles the will; .' And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of. Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all: And thus, the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action!
Marco Bozzarris, the Epaminondas of Modern Greece.
ATHENÆUM. [He fell in an attack upon the Turkish Camp at Laspi, the site of the
ancient Platae, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were—“. To die for liberty is a pleasure and not a pain.”] At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then pressed that monarch's throne,-a king; .
As Eden's garden bird.
That bright dream was his last;
Bozzaris cheer his band;
God—and your native land!"
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
Bleeding at every vein.
And the red field was won;
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the mother, when she feels
Come when the blessed seals
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
That were not born to die.
THOMPSON, The lovely young Lavinia once had friends; And fortune smil'd deceitful on her birth; For, in her helpless years depriv'd of all Of every stay-save innocence and Heaven, She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old, And poor, lived in a cottage, far retir'd Among the windings of a woody vale: By solitude and deep surrounding shades, But more by bashful modesty conceal'd. Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet From giddy passion, and low-minded pride; Almost on Nature's common bounty fed; Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare. Her form was fresher than the morning rose, When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd and pure, As is the lily, or the mountain snow: The modest virtues mingled in her eyes, Still, on the ground dejected, darting all Their humid beams into the blooming flowers: