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Man, and the traces of his might,
Are but the break and close of day,-

Grant us that love of truth sublime,
That love of goodness and of thee,
That makes thy children, in all time,
To share thine own eternity.


No Cause of Enmity between the United States and Great Britain.-EDINBURGH REVIEW.

We have nothing more at heart, than a cordial friendship between America and England. England is not merely the old country, it is the only country with which America has much concern or contact. This circumstance has singled out and fixed an importance and character on every thing that she is disposed to do, or say, or think, or feel, concerning the United States, which her conduct would not possess were the rest of Europe equally in the field. It is as natural for them to think too much, as for us to think too little, about their glorious revolutionary struggle. The somewhat needless parade of their fourth of July anniversaries connects England with annual hostile recollections. If they are astonished at the facility with which we seem to have forgotten the mortification of defeat, there is at least this merit in the oblivion-we must, as a previous condition, have entirely forgiven them their success.

The eagerness of the aspiration, and the effort with which America already flies her kite at every object of excellence, and every pinnacle of power, manifests an energy and a purpose, at which it is impossible not to clap our hands. We should clap the louder, were they

less palpably aware of their own excellences. The merit is a little disfigured by too evident a conceit of what they have done themselves, and by an unseemly jealousy of what has been done, or is doing, by others. England appears, at times, to be the particular object of this jealousy.

What a source of honest pride to the Englishman of Europe, that, whilst the race of France is stationary in Canada, and is disappearing in Louisiana-whilst Spain has scarce impregnated with her stock the borders of the golden kingdoms of Mexico and Peru-our children have. stamped our character on a vast continent, and so breathe our spirit and follow out our example, that they are already treading on our heels! Whatever clouds may seem, at times, to pass over the space between us, we never can believe but that the Englishmen of America brighten their countenances in the reflected glory of their European kindred, past, present and to come. Let them overtake us, if they can, in the road of civilization and of honor. It is not so narrow, but that two can go abreast. Let them pass us, and we shall feel much more pride in their progress, than shame at being left behind.

The political collisions which have arisen out of the maritime and colonial questions between the two governments the airs given themselves by English travellersand the prevalent tone of English literature-seem to have created an impression which we are confident is undeserved. They have combined to mislead a portion of the American public with regard to the real feelings of the English people. This is very much to be regretted, but it is not a matter of surprise to us. There is nothing so difficult as to put nations in possession of the truth on such a subject. Grave French professors of the present day have left England, within these six months, convinced that our actual national occupation is (and has been for the last fifteen years) something very like teach ing starlings the name of Waterloo. There are American

writers, who believe that the independence of America, its republican institutions, and its growing greatness, are a mortification, example and apprehension, from the thoughts of which an English child shrinks instinctively in his cradle. Here and there, it is certain that foolish and prejudiced individuals, entertaining similar sentiments, may be found. But is there a subject on which some possible absurdity or other is not represented by a fraction of society?

It is enough to separate the English people from their communion, that we can honestly declare, so few are their number, that we know no such person, and have never met with one. The distance at which America is placed, the policy which she has wisely pursued of standing aloof from the feuds of Europe, the unobtrusive nature of the objects on which she has been so successfully engaged, keep her very much out of sight, except in the case of those who have some personal connection with her. America has enjoyed immense advantages from the waste of waters which are between us, and from the waste of wilderness beyond her dominions. She must take along with them the disadvantages of her position and of her policy. Our ignorance is far from being indifference; much less is it premeditated ill-will. Could England be polled upon such a subject, the portion of the present generation would be small, indeed, which would not wish their American brethren hearty joy of their good fortune -joy that the United States have achieved their independence-joy that they have established such institutions as they thought were best suited to their condition-joy that they are laying deep in prosperous industry, and political contentment, the foundations of an empire greater and happier-probably ten times greater, certainly a thousand fold happier-than the empire of the Cæsars.

In the mean time, it would be as well, if the Americans would conceal their pride a little. Of some things, however, of their sense, their vigor, their manliness,—it is difficult to think too highly. We, the mother country,

stand, too, upon our right to share with them in their glory. Greece and Rome boasted of their colonies, their emigrant settlements in Asia or in Gaul. How would they have exulted in the parentage of a stock, which, in the brief period of one hundred and fifty years, had swelled from a knot of pilgrims into an independent nation; and which, in the first fifty years of its independence as a nation, had drawn together, by a centripetal force, like that of nature, the discordant materials of half a globe, and magnetized the mass with the electric spark of civil and religious freedom!


The Cotter's Saturday Night.-ROBERT BURNS.

THE cheerful supper done, with serious face,
They round the ingle* form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha' Bible,† once his father's pride;
His bonnet reverently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;

And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,
Or noble Elgin beats the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays.

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise;
No unison have they with our Creator's praise.

* Fire-place. † Hall Bible. + Gray. § Temples.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme-
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head;
How his first followers and servants sped
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land;
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,

And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.

Then, kneeling down to heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays;
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days;
There ever bask in uncreated rays;

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear;

Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear,

While heaven moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compared with this, how poor religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide,
Devotion's every grace except the heart!
The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,

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