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had not even a vessel to offer him for his perilous voyage, and hear him reply, I have, then, no time to lose,'--I cannot, turning from this scene to that before me, bring myself to believe that gentlemen, who differ from the obvious majority of this house, need to rest three nights upon their pillow, before they can arrive at unanimity upon this bill. I cannot but believe, sir, that when we come to the vote, we shall do it with one heart, and that we are now as well prepared, as we shall be on Monday next. We have now met our opponents in the spirit of friendly explanation: we have complied with their wishes--stated--recapitulated; and I fervently trust they are ready to act with us for the honour of our common country.
HEAR, O heaven, and earth, and seas profound!
Hear, ye fathomed deeps below,
Let nature, trembling all around,
Attend her Master's awful name,
He spoke the great command; and light,
Heaven's eldest born and fairest child,
The sons of morning, on the wing,
A beauteous rising world they saw;
And motion took the established law
To roll the various globes on high;
Supreme, Almighty, still the same!
Not heaven itself can bound his sway:
What power but his can rule the changeful main, And wake the sleeping storm, or its loud rage restrain?
When winds their gathered forces try,
The summer breeze, the soft refreshing shower,
The crooked lightning darts around,
Launched from his hand, instructed when to kill,
Yet pleased to bless, indulgent to supply,
That peoples earth, and sea, and air,
Down to the insect worm and creeping ant;
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.-Campbeli.
Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
· Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us—rest, thou art weary and worn,
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
ABSALOM. - Willis.
The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low
The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves,
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's girls. His helm was at his feet: his banner, soiled With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid Reversed, beside him: and the jewelled hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command, In a low tone, to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died: then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of wo:
* Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!
Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet my father' from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
• The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come • To meet me, Absalom!