Gin! Gin! a drop of Gin!

The dram of Satan! the liquor of Sin!—
Distilled from the fell

Alembics of hell,

By Guilt, and Death, his own brother and twin! That man might fall

Still lower than all

The meanest creatures with scale and fin.

But, hold;—we are neither Barebones nor Prynne, Who lashed with such rage

The sins of the age;

Then, instead of making too much of a din,

Let Anger be mute,

And sweet Mercy dilute,

With a drop of Pity, the drop of Gin!

That's steeped in poverty up to the chin;
But snub, neglect, cold shoulder, and cut
The ragged pauper, misfortune's butt,—
Hardly acknowledged by kith and kin,
Because, poor rat!

He has no cravat,

A seedy coat, and a hole in that!—

No sole to his shoe, and no brim to his hat;
Nor a change of linen,-except his skin;
No gloves, no vest,

Either second or best;

And, what is worse than all the rest,

No light heart, though his trousers are thin,—
While time elopes

With all golden hopes,

And even with those of pewter and tin,——

The brightest dreams,

And the best of schemes,

All knocked down, like a wicket by Mynn.-

Each castle in air

Scized by giant Despair,

No prospect in life worth a minikin pin,—
No credit,-no cash,

No cold mutton to hash,

No bread, not even potatoes to mash; No coal in the cellar, no wine in the binn,Smashed, broken to bits,

With judgments and writs;

Bonds, bills, and cognovits distracting the wits
In the webs that the spiders of Chancery spin,
Till weary of life, its worry and strife;
Black visions are rife of a razor, a knife;
Of poison,-a rope,-"louping over a linn."

Gin! Gin! a drop of Gin!

Oh! then its tremendous temptations begin,
To take, alas!

To the fatal glass;

And happy the wretch that does not win
To change the black hue

Of his ruin to "blue,”

While angels sorrow, and demons grin,—
And lose the rheumatic

Chill of his attic

By plunging into the palace of Gin!

Ex. CCXXVIII.—GUSTAVUS VASA TO THE SWEDES.

Are

ye

not marked, ye men of Dalecarlia, Are ye not marked by all the circling world

As the last stake? What but liberty,

BROOFL

Through the famed course of thirteen hundred years. Aloof hath held invasion from your hills,

And sanctified their name? And will ye, will ye

Shrink from the hopes of the expecting world,

Bid your high honors stoop to foreign insult,
And in one hour give up to infamy

The harvest of a thousand years of glory?
Die all first!

Yes, die by piecemeal!

Leave not a limb o'er which a Dane may triumph!

Now from my soul I joy, I joy, my friends,

foes

To see ye feared; to see that even your
Do justice to your valor!-There they are,
The powers of kingdoms, summed in yonder host,
Yet keep aloof, yet trembling to assail ye,
And oh when I look around, and see you here,
Of number short, but prevalent in virtue,
My heart swells high, and burns for the encounter.
True courage but from opposition grows;
And what are fifty, what a thousand slaves,
Matched to the virtue of a single arm

That strikes for liberty? that strikes to save
His fields from fire, his infants from the sword,
And his large honors from eternal infamy?

What doubt we then? Shall we, shall we stand here!
Let us on!

Firm are our hearts, and nervous are our arms,
With us truth, justice, fame, and freedom close,
Each, singly, equal to a host of foes.

Ex. CCXXIX.-THE SCHOLAR'S MISSION.

GEORGE PUTNAM.

THE wants of our time and country, the constitution of our modern society, our whole position,-personal and relative,forbid a life of mere scholarship or literary pursuits, to the great majority of those who go out from our colleges. However it may have been in other times, and other lands, here and now, but few of our educated men are privileged

"From the loop-holes of retreat

To look upon the world, to hear the sound
Of the great Babel, and not feel its stir."

Society has work for us, and we must forth to do it. Full early and hastily we must gird on the manly gown, gather up the loose leaves and scanty fragments of our youthful lore, and go out among men, to act with them and for them. It is a practical age; and our wisdom, such as it is, "must strive and cry, and utter her voice in the streets, standing in the places of the paths, crying in the chief place of concourse, at the entry of the city, and the coming in at the doors."

This state of things, though not suited to the tastes and qualities of all, is not, on the whole, to be regretted by edu

cated men as such. It is not in literary production only, or chiefly, that educated mind finds fit expression, and fulfills its mission in honor and beneficence. In the great theater of the world's affairs, there is a worthy and a sufficient sphere. Society needs the well-trained, enlarged, and cultivated intellect of the scholar, in its midst; needs it, and welcomes it, and gives it a place, or, by its own capacity, it will take a place of honor, influence, and power. The youthful scholar has no occasion to deplore the fate that is soon to tear him from his studies, and cast him into the swelling tide of life and action. None of his disciplinary and enriching culture will be lost, or useless, even there. Every hour of study, every truth he has reached, and the toilsome process by which he reached it; the heightened grace or vigor of thought or speech he has acquired, all shall tell fully, nobly, if he will give heed to the conditions. And one condition-the prime one-is, that he be a true man, and recognize the obligation of a man, and go forth with heart, and will, and every gift and acquirement dedicated, lovingly and resolutely, to the true and the right. These are the terms: and, apart from these there is no success, no influence to be had, which an ingenuous mind can desire, or which a sound and far-seeing mind would dare to ask.

Indeed, it is not an easy thing, nay, it is not a possible thing, to obtain a substantial success, and an abiding influence, except on these terms. A factitious popularity, a transient notoriety, or, in the case of shining talents, the doom of a damning fame, may fall to bad men. But an honored name, enduring influence, a sun brightening on through its circuit, more and more, even to its serene setting, this boon of a true success goes never to intellectual qualities alone. It gravitates slowly, but surely, to weight of character, to intellectual ability rooted in principle.

Ex. CCXXX.—NIGHT.

GEORGE T. RIDER.

STILL night; and the old church bell hath tolled,
With its swinging peal, the passing hour,—

Dolorous now, as it tolled of old

From the heart of its quarried tower;

And it seems to say,

As it dies away,—

The brazen clang of the tremulous bell,—
"Old--old, weary and old;-

The heart grows old; for the world is cold,"——
Solemnly sighs the far-spent knell.

The dark pines mingle in pale starlight,
Like the phantom-forms of a fearful night;
Tossing their branches to and fro,

Like the nodding plumes of a funeral show,
The sighing night-winds come and go,
And seem to say,

In a mystic way,

As they whisper together, soft and low,-
"Way-worn and weary,

The heart grows cold; for life is dreary,"-
Whisper the night-winds, soft and low.

Gray willows bend above the stones,
The old church wraps in her solemn shade:
Sepulchral stones, that tell of moans,-
Of broken hearts and dying groans,-
Where perished hopes are laid.

And the stony lips of the marble say,
In a dismal and unloving way,

That chills my bounding heart within me,—
"Way-worn and weary,

The heart grows cold, for life is dreary:
Come, wanderer,-come!

Earth hath no home

Where grief and tears shall not o'ertake thee."

Ex. CCXXXI.-THE PRESENT AGE.

CHANNING.

THE Present Age. In these brief words what a world of thought is comprehended! what infinite movements! what joys and sorrows! what hope and despair! what faith and doubt! what silent grief and loud lament! what fierce conflicts and subtle schemes of policy! what private and public revolutions! In the period through which many of us have passed, what thrones have been shaken! what hearts have bled! what millions have been butchered by their fellow