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fair vision of Princely Faith to vanish forever?—I will not believe it-I require an act of Parliament to vouch its credibility-nay more, I demand a miracle to convince me that it is possible!

STANZAS,

Written near la Croix de la Flegère, in the Vale of Chamouni.*

Watts.

'Tis night, and silence with unmoving wings
Broods o'er the sleeping waters;-not a sound
Breaks its most breathless hush ;-the sweet moon flings
Her pallid lustre on the hills around,

Turning the snows and ices that have crowned-
Since chaos reigned-each vast and searchless height,
To beryl, pearl, and silver; whilst, profound,

In the still waveless lake reflected bright,

And girt with arrowy rays, rests her full orb of light.

The eternal mountains momently are peering
Through the blue clouds that mantle them;-on high
Their glittering crests majestically rearing,
More like to children of the infinite sky
Than of the dædal earth ;—triumphantly,

Prince of the whirlwind-monarch of the scene-
Mightiest where all are mighty,—from the eye
Of mortal man half hidden by the screen

Of mist that moats his base, from Arve's dark, deep ravine,

Stands the magnificent Montblanc !—his brow,
Scarred by ten thousand thunders; most sublime,
Even as though risen from the world below,
To watch the progress of decay;—by clime-
Storm-blight-fire-earthquake, injured not-like Time,
Stern chronicler of centuries gone by,

Doomed by an awful fiat still to climb,

Swell and increase with years incessantly,

Then yield at length to thee, most dread Eternity!

* La Croix de la Flegère is an elevated point on the mountain of that name, and commands a fine view of Montblanc.

Hark! there are sounds of tumult and commotion
Hurtling in murmurs on the distant air,
Like the wild music of a wind-lashed ocean :
They rage-they gather now :-yon valley fair
Still sleeps in moonbright loveliness, but there,
Methinks, a form of horror I behold,

With giant stride descending!-'t is Despair

Riding the rushing avalanche; now rolled

From its tall cliff-by whom? what mortal may unfold!

Perchance a gale from fervid Italy

Disturbed the air-hung thunder; or the tone
Breathed from some hunter's horn;-or it may be,
The echoes of the mountain cataract, thrown
Amid its voiceful snows, have thus called down
The overwhelming ruin on the vale:
Howbeit a mystery to man unknown,

'T was but some heaven-sent power that did prevail,
For an inscrutable end its slumbers to assail.

Madly it bursts along-even as a river

That gathers strength in its most fierce career;
The black and lofty pines a moment quiver
Before its breath, but as it draws more near,
Crash-and are seen no more! Fleet-footed fear,
Pale as that white-robed minister of wrath,
In silent wilderment her face doth rear,

But having gazed upon its blight and scathe,

Flies, with the swift chamois, from its death-dooming path!

JACOB'S DREAM.-.
-Anonymous.

THE Sun upon the western hills was gone,
That guard thy vales of beauty, Palestine!
Now flaming like a golden fiery zone,

The crescent on the eastern heaven, supine,
Hung on the purple horizontal line.

Up Padan-aram's height, abrupt and bare,

A pilgrim toiled, and oft on day's decline

Looked pale, then paused for eve's delicious air :The summit gained, he knelt, and breathed his evening prayer.

He spread his cloak, and slumbered. Darkness fell
Upon the twilight hills. A sudden sound
Of silver trumpets o'er him seemed to swell;
Clouds heavy with the tempest gathered round,
Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns bound.
Still deeper rolled the darkness from on high,
Gigantic volume upon volume wound :

Above, a pillar shooting to the sky,
Below, an ocean spreading on incessantly.

Voices are heard-a choir of golden strings,
Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose;
Then chariot-wheels,-the nearer rush of wings;
Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows:
It thunders-the resplendent gates unclose.

Far as the eye can glance, o'er height on height,
Blaze fiery waving wings, and star-crowned brows,
Ranked by their millions, brighter and more bright,
Till all is lost in one supreme, unmingled light.

But two beside the sleeping pilgrim stand,

Like cherub-kings, with uplift mighty plume,
Fixed sunbright eyes, and looks of high command:
They tell the patriarch of his glorious doom,
Father of countless myriads, that shall come,
Sweeping the land, like billows of the sea,
Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's gloom,
Till He is given whom angels long to see,
And Israel's splendid line is crowned with Deity.

ATROCITIES OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.- -Roland.

FRANCE has become a vast amphitheatre of carnage, a bloody arena, on which her own children are tearing one another to pieces.

The enemy, favoured by her intestine dissensions, ad

vances in every quarter · the cities of the North fall into

large extent of territory; the Lyonnese, indiscreetly provoked, burst into open resistance; Marseilles prepares for their succour; the neighbouring departments take arms: and in this universal agitation, and in the midst of these multiplied disorders, there is nothing uniform but the measures of the foreign powers, whose conspiracy against freedom and mankind our excesses have sanctified. Our government is a species of monster, of which the form and the actions are equally odious: it destroys whatever it touches, and devours its very self.

The armies, ill conducted, and worse provided, fight and fly alternately with desperate energy. The most able commanders are accused of treason, because certain representatives, utterly ignorant of war, blame what they do not comprehend, and stigmatise as aristocrats all those who are more enlightened than themselves. A legislative body, characterized by debility from the moment of its existence, presented us at first with animated debates, which lasted as long as there existed among the members sufficient wisdom to foresee dangers, and courage enough to announce them:

The just and generous spirits, who had nothing in view but the welfare of their country, and dared attempt to establish it, are sacrificed by ignorance and fear to intrigue and peculation; chased from that body of which they were the soul, they left behind them an extravagant and corrupt minority, who exercise despotic sway, and who, by their follies and their crimes, are digging their own graves: but it is, alas! in consummating the ruin of the republic!

The nation has accepted a constitution essentially vicious, which, even if unexceptionable, should have been rejected with indignation, because nothing can be accepted from the hands of villany without degradation to the receiver. They still talk of security and freedom, though they see them both violated with impunity in the persons of their representatives! They can only change their tyrants; they are already under a rod of iron, and every change appears to them a blessing; but incapable of effecting it themselves, they expect it from the first master who shall choose to assume the sovereign command.

O Brutus! thou, whose daring hand emancipated the depraved Romans, we have erred in vain, like thee! Those just and enlightened men, whose ardent spirits longed for liberty, and who had prepared themselves for it by the tran

quil studies, and in the silent retreats of philosophy, flattered themselves, like thee, that the subversion of despotism would establish the throne of justice and peace. Alas! it has only served as the signal for the most hateful passions, and the most execrable vices!

THE SAME CONTINUED.

THE hour of indignation is past; it is too evident that we have no longer a right to hope for anything good, or to be astonished at any species of evil. Will history ever paint these dreadful times, or the abominable monsters who fill them with their barbarities? They surpass the cruelties of Marius, and the sanguinary achievements of Sylla. The latter, when he shut up and slaughtered six thousand men, who had surrendered to him, in the neighbourhood of the senate, which he encouraged to proceed in the debate amid their dreadful cries, acted like a tyrant, abusing the power he had usurped: but to what can we compare the domination of those hypocrites, who, always wearing the mask of justice, and speaking the language of the law, have created a tribunal to serve as the engine of their personal vengeance, and send to the scaffold, with formalities insultingly judicial, every individual, whose virtues offend them, whose talents excite their jealousy, or whose opulence calls forth their lust of wealth?

What Babylon ever presented a prototype of Paris, polluted with debauchery and blood, and governed by magistrates whose profession it is to circulate falsehoods, to sell calumny, and to panegyrize assassination? What people ever depraved their morals and their nature to such a degree, as to contract an appetite for blood, to foam with fury when an execution is delayed, and to be ever ready to exercise their ferocity on all who attempt to calm or mitigate their rage? The days of September were the sole work of a small number of inebriated tygers: on the 31st of May and the 2d of June the triumph of guilt was confirmed by

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