ness. It breaks the father's heart, bereaves the doting mother, extinguishes natural affection, erases conjugal love, blots out filial attachment, blights parental hope, and brings down mourning age in sorrow to the grave. It produces weakness, not strength; sickness, not health; death, not life. It makes wives widows, children orphans, fathers, fiends, and all of them paupers and beggars. It feeds rheumatism, nurses gout, welcomes epidemics, invites cholera, imports pestilence and embraces consumption. It covers the land with idleness, poverty, disease and crime. It fills your jails, supplies your almshouses, and demands your asylums. It engenders controversies, fosters quarrels, and cherishes riots. It crowds your penitentiaries, and furnishes the victims for your scaffolds. It is the life blood of the gambler, the ailment of the counterfeiter, the prop of the highwayman, and the support of the midnight incendiary. It countenances the liar, respects the thief, and esteems the blas phemer. It violates obligation, reverences fraud, and honors infamy. It defames benevolence, hates love, scorns virtue, and slanders innocence. It incites the father to butcher his helpless offspring, helps the husband to massacre his wife, and aids the child to grind the parricidal axe. It burns up man and consumes woman, detests life, curses God, and despises heaven. It suborns witnesses, nurses perjury, defiles the jury box and stains the judicial ermine. It bribes voters, disqualifies votes, corrupts elections, pollutes our institutions, and endangers our government. It degrades the citizen, debases the legislator, dishonors the statesman, and disarms the patriot. It brings shame, not honor; terror, not safety; despair, not hope; misery, not happiness. And with the malevolence of a fiend it calmly surveys its frightful desolations; and insatiated with havoc, it poisons felicity, kills peace, ruins morals, blights confidence, slays reputation, and wipes out national honor; then curses the world and laughs at its ruin. It does all that, and more. It murders the soul. It is the sum of all villanies; the father of all crimes; the mother of all abominations; the curse of curses; the devil's best friend, and God's worst enemy. -Robert G. Ingersoll. H Home Again. JOME again, mother, your boy will rest You have little changed; ah, well, maybe No longer I climb on your knee at night Do I bring to you with its edges worn; I'll come again as of old-and you A POEMS OF FANCY. Delights of Fancy. [From "The Pleasures of Imagination."] S Memnon's marble harp renowned of old By fabling Nilus, to the quivering touch Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string Consenting, sounded through the warbling air Unbidden strains; e'en so did Nature's hand To certain species of external things Attune the finer organs of the mind; So the glad impulse of congenial powers, Or of sweet sound, or fair-proportioned form, The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, Thrills through imagination's tender frame, From nerve to nerve; all naked and alive They catch the spreading rays; till now the soul At length discloses every tuneful spring, To that harmonicus movement from without, Responsive. Then the inexpressive strain The Minuet. How she danced-my grandma danced Long ago. How she held her pretty head, How her dainty skirt she spread, How she turned her little toes Smiling little human rose! Long ago. Grandma's hair was bright and sunny; Dimpled cheeks, too-ah, how funny! Really quite a pretty girl, Long ago. Bless her! why, she wears a cap, Grandma does, and takes a nap Every single day; and yet Grandma danced the minuet Long ago. Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, Yet her figure is so neat, And her way so staid and sweet, I can almost see her now Bending to her partner's bow, Grandma says our modern jumping, No-they moved with stately grace, THE Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Save that from yonder ivy mantled tower The moping owl doth to the moon complain Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, with that dauntless breast The applause of listening senates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires: For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love "One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came-nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, [borne; Slow through the church-way path we saw him Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode: (There they alike iu trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and His God. [friend. -Gray. |