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same stern, impatient, inflexible original--the same mysterious incomprehensible self-the man without a model and without a shadow,
Extract from Mr. HOPKINSON's Discourse before the Penn
sylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.
When some eminent citizen, eminent by his virtue, devotes his life, and all his faculties, to the service of his country ; when, by an illustrious sacrifice of himself he averts some dreaded calamity, some threatening ruin, what has the gratitude, the justice of a republic to give ? How shall she acknowledge and acquit the obligation ? Instead of rank and titles incompatible with her principles ; instead of grants and pensions which exhaust the public wealth, and excite rather a spirit of avarice or luxury, than patriotism, the vast debt is cheaply paid by the skill of the artist consecrated by the voice of the nation. Such rewards neither encourage nor gratify any sordid disposition, but operate only on the generous, the disinterested, the sublime passions of the soul. They neither give power, nor endanger liberty ; yet they satisfy the patriot, and excite the noblest emulation. The greatest minds are impelled to their boldest exploits by the suggestions of honour, and the prospect of some public and permanent testimony of their merit and services. “A Peerage or Westminster Abbey," was in the heart and on the lips of the immortal Nelson whenever he was about to plunge into some perilous enterprize. When hereafter our commonwealth shall produce Nelsons blazing with glory ; when we shall have statesmen and generals rivaling the heroes of the ancient republics in the purity of their virtue and importance of their services, performed by incredible exertions, by extreme suffering, by premature death, where is the art or the artist to bear down to future ages the fame of their achievements, or proclaim the gratitude of their country. Shall we disgracefully apply to the very enemy they have defeated, to commemorate the triumph ? Must the conqueror stoop to the conquered, acknowledging a degrading and mortifying inferiority
Athens was the teacher of Rome in those things which really dignify a nation, after the arms of Rome had subjugated the liberties of Greece ; and Athens is now remembered and revered more as the mistress of learning and the arts than for all her victories.
But shall any future patriot hope to have his memory perpetuated, when “ Washington” lies neglected. Not a stone tells the stranger where the hero is laid. No proud column declares that his country is grateful. If but an infant perish, even before its smiles have touched a parent's love, he marks, with some honour, the earth that covers it. 'Tis the last tribute which the humblest pay to the most humble.
" Yet e'en those bones from insult to protect,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh." The stranger who in days to come, shall visit our shore, will exclaim, show me the statue of your “ Washington,” that I may contemplate the majestic form that encompassed his mighty soul; that I may gaze upon those features once lighted with every virtue ; and learn to love virtue as I behold them. Alas! there no such statue. Lead me then, American, to the tomb your country has provided for her deliverer ; to the everlasting monument she has erected to his fame.
Alas! His grave is in the bosom of his own soil, and the ccđạr, that was watered by his hand, is all that rests upon it. Tell me whence is this supineness? Is it envy, jealousy, or ingratitude ? Or is it that, in the great struggle for power and place, every thing else is forgotten; every noble, generous, and national sentiment disregarded or despised ? Whatever be the cause, the curse of ingratitude is upon us until it be removed,
GINEVRA-from Italy, a Poem.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
She sits inclining forward as to speak,
She was an only child, her name Ginevra,
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco
Weary of his life,
When he was gone the house remain'd awhile
There then she had found a grave !
Lines written by Bishop HEBER to his Wife.
How fast would evening fail,
Listening the nightingale !
My babies at my knee,
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!
When, on our deck reclined,
And woo the cooler wind.
I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,
I miss thee from my side.
I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.
But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,
Thy prayers ascend for me.
My course be onward still,
O'er black Almorah's hill.
That course nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor mild Malwah detain,
By yonder western main.
Across the dark blue sea,
As then shall meet in thee !
THE CYPRESS WREATH.-Walter Scoti,
O lady, twine no wreath for me,
Let dimpled mirth his temples twine