of old, may not be unavailing here. A conspiracy of profligate men, pandering to the passions of the people, may inflame them to their ruin-and the country, betrayed into the hands of its worst citizens, may be enslaved with all the appearances of freedom. Should that day come, remember never to capitulate-never to compromise-never to yield to the country's enemies. Remember that crime is not the less guilty-it is only the more dangerous by success. If you should see the cause betrayed by those who ought to defend it, be you only the more faithful. Never desert the country-never despond over its fortunes. Confront its betrayers, as madmen are made to quail beneath the stern gaze of fearless reason. They will denounce you. Disregard their outcries-it is only the scream of the vultures whom you scare from their prey. They will seek to destroy you. Rejoice that your country's enemies are yours. You can never fall more worthily than in defending her from her own degenerate children. If overborne by this tumult, and the cause seems hopeless, continue self-sustained and selfpossessed. Retire to your fields, but look beyond them. Nourish your spirits with meditation on the mighty dead who have saved their country. From your own quiet elevation, watch calmly this servile rout, as its triumph sweeps before you. The avenging hour will at last come. It cannot be that our free nation can long endure the vulgar dominion of ignorance and profligacy. You will live to see the laws re-established-these banditti will be Scourged back to their caverns-the penitentiary will reclaim its fugitives in office, and the only remembrance which history will preserve of them, is the energy with which you resisted and defeated them.

XXXIII.

Soliloquy of Manfred.-BYRON.

THE spirits I have raised abandon me-
The spells which I have studied baffle me-
The remedy I recked of tortures me;
I lean no more on superhuman aid,
It hath no power upon the past, and for

The future, till the past be gulfed in darkness,
It is not of my search. My mother earth!

And thou, fresh breaking day! and you, ye mountains!
Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye.
And thou, the bright eye of the universe,
That openest over all, and unto all

Art a delight-thou shinest not on my heart.
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs
In dizziness of distance; when a leap,
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed
To rest for ever-wherefore do I pause?
I feel the impulse-yet I do not plunge;
I see the peril-yet do not recede;

And my brain reels-and yet my foot is firm:
There is a power upon me which withholds
And makes it my fatality to live;

If it be life to wear within myself
This barrenness of spirit, and to be
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased
To justify my deeds unto myself-
The last infirmity of evil. Ay,

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister,

[An eagle passes.

Whose happy flight is highest into heaven,
Well mayest thou swoop so near me--I should be
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art gone
Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine
Yet pierces downward, onward, or above
With a pervading vision.Beautiful!
How beautiful is all this visible world!
How glorious in its action and itself!

But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we,
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit

To sink or soar, with our mixed essence make
A conflict of its elements, and breathe
The breath of degradation and of pride,
Contending with low wants and lofty will
Till our mortality predominates,

And men are-what they name not to themselves,
And trust not to each other. Hark! the note,

[The shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard.

The natural music of the mountain reed-
For here the patriarchal days are not

A pastoral fable-pipes in the liberal air,
Mixed with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd;
My soul would drink those echoes.-Oh, that I were
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound,

A living voice, a breathing harmony,
A bodiless enjoyment-born and dying
With the blest tone which made me!

XXXIV.

The Utility of Spectacles; or, Helps to Read.-BYROM.

A CERTAIN artist, I've forgot his name,
Had got for making spectacles a fame,
Or Helps to Read-as, when they first were sold,
Was writ upon his glaring sign in gold;
And, for all uses to be had from glass,
His were allowed, by readers, to surpass.
There came a man into his shop one day-
Are you the spectacle contriver, pray!
Yes, sir, said he, I can in that affair
Contrive to please you, if you want a pair.
Can you? pray do then.-So, at first, he chose
To place a youngish pair upon his nose,
And book produced, to see how they would fit:
Asked how he liked 'em?-Like 'em? not a bit-
Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try,

These in my hand will better suit your eye-
No, but they don't-Well, come, sir, if you please,
Here is another sort, we'll e'en try these;
Still somewhat more they magnify the letter:
Now, sir?-Why now-I'm not a bit the better-
No! here, take these that magnify still more;
How do they fit?-Like all the rest before.
In short, they tried a whole assortment through,
But all in vain, for none of 'em would do.
The operator, much surprised to find

So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind:
What sort of eyes can you have got? said he.
Why, very good ones, friend, as you may see.

Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball-
Pray, let me ask you-Can you read at all?
No, you great blockhead; if I could, what need
Of paying you for any Helps to Read?
And so he left the maker, in a heat,
Resolved to post him for an arrant cheat.

XXXV.

The Newcastle Apothecary.-COLMAN.

A MEMBER of the Esculapian race
Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill,
Or make a bill,

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister,
Or draw a tooth out of your head,
Or chatter scandal by your bed,

Or give a glister.

His fame full six miles round the country ran;
In short, in reputation he was solus;

All the old women called him "a fine man!"
His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade,

(Which often will genius fetter) Read works of fancy, it is said,

And cultivated the Belles Lettres.

And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste to cure a phthisic?
Of poetry though patron god,

Apollo patronizes physic.

Bolus loved verse, and took so much delight in 't, That his prescriptions he resolved to write in 't.

No opportunity he e'er let pass

Of writing the directions on his labels,
In dapper couplets-like Gay's fables,

Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.

Apothecary's verse!-and where's the treason?
"Tis simply honest dealing-not a crime;
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.

He had a patient lying at death's door,

Some three miles from the town-it might be four;
To whom one evening Bolus sent an article
In pharmacy, that's called cathartical,

And, on the label of the stuff,

He wrote this verse,

Which one would think was clear enough,
And terse:

"When taken,

To be well shaken."

Next morning, early, Bolus rose,
And to the patient's house he goes
Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had :
It was indeed a very sorry hack;
But that's of course,

For what 's expected from a horse,
With an apothecary on his back?
Bolus arrived, and gave a loudish tap,
Between a single and a double rap.

The servant lets him in with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place,

Portending some disaster;

John's countenance as rueful looked and grim,
As if the apothecary had physicked him,
And not his master.
"Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said.
John shook his head.

"Indeed!-hum!-ha!-that's very odd! He took the draught?"-John gave a nod. "Well?-how?-what then?-speak out, you dunce." Why, then," says John, "we shook him once." "Shook him!-how?" Bolus stammered out.

"We jolted him about."