Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood-
Some mute, inglorious Milton, here may rest-
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined— Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their

way.

Yet ev❜n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial, still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spell'd by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,
To teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being, e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If, 'chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dew away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now, smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love
"One morn, I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next-with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borneApproach, and read-for thou can'st read-the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown:
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
gave to Misery all he had,-
-a tear;

He

He gain'd from heaven-'twas all he wish'd—a friend No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode(There they alike in trembling hope repose!)The bosom of his Father and his God!

LESSON XLII.

America and Ireland.-C. PHILLIPS.

THE mention of America has never failed to fill me with the most lively emotion. In my earliest youth, that tender season when impressions, at once the most permanent and the most powerful, are likely to be excited, the story of her then recent struggle raised a throb in every heart that loved liberty, and wrung a reluctant tribute even from discomfited oppression. I saw her spurning alike the luxuries that would enervate, and the legions that would intimidate; dashing from her lips the poisoned cup of European servitude; and, through all the vicissitudes of her protracted conflict, displaying a magnanimity that defied misfortune, a moderation that gave new grace to victory. It was the first vision of my childhood; it will descend with me to the grave.

But if, as a man, I venerate the mention of America, what must be my feelings towards her as an Irishman! Never, O never, while memory remains, can Ireland forget the home of her emigrant, and the asylum of her exile. No matter whether their sorrows sprang from the errors of enthusiasm, or the realities of suffering; from fancy, or infliction; that must be reserved for the scrutiny of those, whom the lapse of time shall acquit of partiality. It is for the men of other ages to investigate and record it. But surely, it is for the men of every age to hail the hospitality that received the shelterless, and love the feeling that befriended the unfortunate.

Search creation round, where can you find a country that presents so sublime a view, so interesting an anticipation? What noble institutions! What a comprehensive policy! What a wise equalization of every political advantage! The oppressed of all countries, the martyrs of every creed, the innocent victim of despotic arrogance or superstitious frenzy, may there find a refuge; his industry encouraged, his piety respected, his ambition animated; with no restraint but those laws, which are the same to all, and no distinction but that, which his merit may originate. Who can deny that the existence of such a country presents a subject for human congratulation! Who can deny, that

its gigantic advancement offers a field for the most rational conjecture! At the end of the next century, if she proceeds as she seems to promise, what a wondrous spectacle may she not exhibit! Who shall say for what purpose a mysterious Providence may not have designed her! Who shall say that when, in its follies or its crimes, the old world may have interred all the pride of its power, and all the pomp of its civilization, human nature may not find its destined renovation in the new!

For myself, I have no doubt of it. I have not the least doubt, that when our temples and our trophies shall have mouldered into dust-when the glories of our name shall be but the legend of tradition, and the light of our achievements only live in song, philosophy will rise again in the sky of her Franklin, and glory rekindle at the urn of her Washington. Is this the vision of a romantic fancy? Is it even improbable? Is it half so improbable as the events, which for the last twenty years have rolled like successive tides over the surface of the European world, each erasing the impression that preceded it?

Thousands upon thousands, Sir, I know there are, who will consider this supposition as wild and whimsical; but they have dwelt with little reflection upon the records of the past. They have but ill observed the never-ceasing progress of national rise and national ruin. They form their judgment on the deceitful stability of the present hour, never considering the innumerable monarchies and republics, in former days apparently as permanent, their very existence become now the subjects of speculation-I had almost said, of scepticism.

I appeal to History!

Tell me, thou reverend chronicler of the grave, can all the illusions of ambition realized, can all the wealth of an universal commerce, can all the achieve ments of successful heroism, or all the establishments of this world's wisdom, secure to empire the permanency of its possessions? Alas, Troy thought so once; yet the land of Priam lives only in song! Thebes thought so once, yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and her very tombs are but as the dust they were vainly intended to commemorate. So thought Palmyra—where is she? So thought the countries of Demosthenes and the Spartan, yet Leonidas is trampled by the timid slave, and Athens insulted by the ser.

vilé, mindless, and enervate Ottoman. In his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined immortality—and all their vanities, from the palace to the tomb, have, with their ruins, erased the very impression of his footsteps! The days of their glory are as if they had never been; and the, island, that was then a speck, rude and neglected in the barren ocean, now rivals the ubiquity of their commerce, the glory of their arms, the fame of their philosophy, the eloquence of their senate, and the inspiration of their bards!

Who shall say, then, contemplating the past, that England, proud and potent as she appears, may not one day be what Athens is, and the young America yet soar to be what Athens was? Who shall say, when the European column shall have mouldered, and the night of barbarism obscured its very ruins, that that mighty continent may not emerge from the horizon, to rule, for its time, sovereign of the ascendant!

LESSON LXIII.

Tribute to Washington.-C. PHILLIPS.

ALLOW me to add one flower to the chaplet, which, though it sprang in America, is no exotic. Virtue planted it, and it is naturalized every where. I see you anticipate me -I see you concur with me, that it matters very little what spot may be the birth-place of such a man as Washington. No people can claim, no country can appropriate him. The boon of Providence to the human race, his fame is eternity, and his residence creation. Though it was the defeat of our arms, and the disgrace of our policy, I almost bless the convulsion in which he had his origin. If the heavens thundered, and the earth rocked, yet, when the storm had passed, how pure was the climate that it cleared! how bright, in the brow of the firmament, was the planet which it revealed to us!

In the production of Washington, it does really appear as if Nature was endeavouring to improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the ancient world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of the new. Individual