As thus the snows arise; and foul, and fierce,All winter drives along the darkened air;In his own loose revolving fields, the swainDisaster’d stands; sees other hills ascend,Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes,Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain:Nor finds the river nor the forest, hidBeneath the formless wild; but wanders onFrom hill to dale, still more and more astray,Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of homeRush on his nerves, and call their vigour forthIn many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!What black despair, what horror fills his breast!When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign’dHis tufted cottage rising through the snow,He meets the roughness of the middle wasteFar from the track and blest abode of man,While round him might resistless closes fast,And every tempest, howling o’er his head,Renders the savage wildness more wild.Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,Of covered pits unfathomably deep,A dire descent! beyond the power of frost;Of faithless bogs; Of precipices hugeSmoothed up with snow; and what is land, unknown,What water of the still unfrozen spring,In the loose marsh or solitary lake,Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.These check his fearful steps; and down he sinksBeneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,Thinking o’er all the bitterness of death,Mix’d with the tender anguish nature shootsThrough the wrung bosom of the dying man—His wife—his children—and his friends unseen.In vain for him the officious wife preparesThe fire, fair, blazing, and the vestment warm.In vain his little children, peeping outInto the mingling storm, demand their sireWith tears of artless innocence. Alas!Nor wife, nor children more shall he behold—Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerveThe deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense,And, o’er his inmost vitals creeping cold,Lays him along the snows, a stiffened corse,Stretch’d out, and bleaching in the northern blast.J. S. D.
As thus the snows arise; and foul, and fierce,All winter drives along the darkened air;In his own loose revolving fields, the swainDisaster’d stands; sees other hills ascend,Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes,Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain:Nor finds the river nor the forest, hidBeneath the formless wild; but wanders onFrom hill to dale, still more and more astray,Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of homeRush on his nerves, and call their vigour forthIn many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!What black despair, what horror fills his breast!When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign’dHis tufted cottage rising through the snow,He meets the roughness of the middle wasteFar from the track and blest abode of man,While round him might resistless closes fast,And every tempest, howling o’er his head,Renders the savage wildness more wild.Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,Of covered pits unfathomably deep,A dire descent! beyond the power of frost;Of faithless bogs; Of precipices hugeSmoothed up with snow; and what is land, unknown,What water of the still unfrozen spring,In the loose marsh or solitary lake,Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.These check his fearful steps; and down he sinksBeneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,Thinking o’er all the bitterness of death,Mix’d with the tender anguish nature shootsThrough the wrung bosom of the dying man—His wife—his children—and his friends unseen.In vain for him the officious wife preparesThe fire, fair, blazing, and the vestment warm.In vain his little children, peeping outInto the mingling storm, demand their sireWith tears of artless innocence. Alas!Nor wife, nor children more shall he behold—Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerveThe deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense,And, o’er his inmost vitals creeping cold,Lays him along the snows, a stiffened corse,Stretch’d out, and bleaching in the northern blast.J. S. D.
As thus the snows arise; and foul, and fierce,All winter drives along the darkened air;In his own loose revolving fields, the swainDisaster’d stands; sees other hills ascend,Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes,Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain:Nor finds the river nor the forest, hidBeneath the formless wild; but wanders onFrom hill to dale, still more and more astray,Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of homeRush on his nerves, and call their vigour forthIn many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!What black despair, what horror fills his breast!When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign’dHis tufted cottage rising through the snow,He meets the roughness of the middle wasteFar from the track and blest abode of man,While round him might resistless closes fast,And every tempest, howling o’er his head,Renders the savage wildness more wild.Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,Of covered pits unfathomably deep,A dire descent! beyond the power of frost;Of faithless bogs; Of precipices hugeSmoothed up with snow; and what is land, unknown,What water of the still unfrozen spring,In the loose marsh or solitary lake,Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.These check his fearful steps; and down he sinksBeneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,Thinking o’er all the bitterness of death,Mix’d with the tender anguish nature shootsThrough the wrung bosom of the dying man—His wife—his children—and his friends unseen.In vain for him the officious wife preparesThe fire, fair, blazing, and the vestment warm.In vain his little children, peeping outInto the mingling storm, demand their sireWith tears of artless innocence. Alas!Nor wife, nor children more shall he behold—Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerveThe deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense,And, o’er his inmost vitals creeping cold,Lays him along the snows, a stiffened corse,Stretch’d out, and bleaching in the northern blast.
As thus the snows arise; and foul, and fierce,
All winter drives along the darkened air;
In his own loose revolving fields, the swain
Disaster’d stands; sees other hills ascend,
Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes,
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain:
Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid
Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on
From hill to dale, still more and more astray,
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,
Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!
What black despair, what horror fills his breast!
When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign’d
His tufted cottage rising through the snow,
He meets the roughness of the middle waste
Far from the track and blest abode of man,
While round him might resistless closes fast,
And every tempest, howling o’er his head,
Renders the savage wildness more wild.
Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,
Of covered pits unfathomably deep,
A dire descent! beyond the power of frost;
Of faithless bogs; Of precipices huge
Smoothed up with snow; and what is land, unknown,
What water of the still unfrozen spring,
In the loose marsh or solitary lake,
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.
These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,
Thinking o’er all the bitterness of death,
Mix’d with the tender anguish nature shoots
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man—
His wife—his children—and his friends unseen.
In vain for him the officious wife prepares
The fire, fair, blazing, and the vestment warm.
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire
With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children more shall he behold—
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve
The deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense,
And, o’er his inmost vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows, a stiffened corse,
Stretch’d out, and bleaching in the northern blast.
J. S. D.
J. S. D.
Gravity.—Gravity is an arrant scoundrel, and one of the most dangerous kind too, because a sly one; and we verily believe that more honest, well-meaning people are bubbled out of their goods and money by it in one twelvemonth, than by pocket-picking and shop-lifting in seven. The very essence of gravity is design, and consequently deceit; it is in fact a taught trick to gain credit with the world for more sense and knowledge than a man is really worth.
War, it is said, kindles patriotism; by fighting for our country we learn to love it. But the patriotism which is cherished by war, is ordinarily false and spurious, a vice and not a virtue, a scourge to the world, a narrow unjust passion, which aims to exalt a particular state on the humiliation and destruction of other nations. A genuine enlightened patriot discerns that the welfare of his own country is involved in the general progress of society; and in the character of a patriot, as well as of a Christian, he rejoices in the liberty and prosperity of other communities, and is anxious to maintain with them the relations of peace and amity.
It is said that a military spirit is the defence of a country. But it more frequently endangers the vital interests of a nation, by embroiling it with other states. This spirit, like every other passion, is impatient for gratification, and often precipitates a country into unnecessary war. A people have no need of a military spirit. Let them be attached to their government and institutions by habit, by early associations, and especially by experimental conviction of their excellence, and they will never want means or spirit to defend them.
War is recommended as a method of redressing national grievances. But unhappily the weapons of war, from their very nature, are often wielded most successfully by the unprincipled. Justice and force have little congeniality. Should not Christians everywhere strive to promote the reference of national as well as of individual disputes to an impartial umpire? Is a project of this nature more extravagant than the idea of reducing savage hordes to a state of regular society? The last has been accomplished. Is the first to be abandoned in despair?
It is said that war sweeps off the idle, dissolute, and vicious members of the community. Monstrous argument! If a government may for this end plunge a nation into war, it may with equal justice consign to the executioner any number of its subjects whom it may deem a burden on the state. The fact is, that war commonly generates as many profligates as it destroys. A disbanded army fills the community with at least as many abandoned members as at first it absorbed.
It is sometimes said that a military spirit favours liberty. But how is it, that nations, after fighting for ages, are so generally enslaved? The truth is, that liberty has no foundation but in private and public virtue; and virtue, as we have seen, is not the common growth of war.
But the great argument remains to be discussed. It is said that without war to excite and invigorate the human mind, some of its noblest energies will slumber, and its highest qualities, courage, magnanimity, fortitude, will perish. To this I answer, that if war is to be encouraged among nations because it nourishes energy and heroism, on the same principle war in our families, and war between neighbourhoods, villages, and cities, ought to be encouraged; for such contests would equally tend to promote heroic daring and contempt of death. Why shall not different provinces of the same empire annually meet with the weapons of death, to keep alive their courage? We shrink at this suggestion with horror; but why shall contests of nations, rather than of provinces or families, find shelter under this barbarous argument?
I observe again: if war be a blessing, because it awakens energy and courage, then the savage state is peculiarly privileged; for every savage is a soldier, and his whole modes of life tend to form him to invincible resolution. On the same principle, those early periods of society were happy, when men were called to contend, not only with one another, but with beasts of prey; for to these excitements we owe the heroism of Hercules and Theseus. On the same principle, the feudal ages were more favoured than the present; for then every baron was a military chief, every castle frowned defiance, and every vassal was trained to arms. And do we really wish that the earth should again be overrun with monsters, or abandoned to savage or feudal violence, in order that heroes may be multiplied? If not, let us cease to vindicate war as affording excitement to energy and courage.—Channing.
Suffer not your spirit to be subdued by misfortunes, but, on the contrary, steer right onward, with a courage greater than your fate seems to allow.
Printed and published every Saturday byGunnandCameron, at the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane, College Green, Dublin.—Agents:—R. Groombridge, Panyer Alley, Paternoster Row, London;SimmsandDinham, Exchange Street, Manchester;C. Davies, North John Street, Liverpool;John Menzies, Prince’s Street, Edinburgh; andDavid Robertson, Trongate, Glasgow.
Printed and published every Saturday byGunnandCameron, at the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane, College Green, Dublin.—Agents:—R. Groombridge, Panyer Alley, Paternoster Row, London;SimmsandDinham, Exchange Street, Manchester;C. Davies, North John Street, Liverpool;John Menzies, Prince’s Street, Edinburgh; andDavid Robertson, Trongate, Glasgow.