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You mark the plan of God, in " mercy" laid,
That plan in Heaven devised, on earth displayed,
You see the Saviour meek, and low, and mild,
In power a Deity-in heart a child;

You drink his words in "meekness" as they flow,
Breathing compassion for a world of woe;
"Forgive"-the lesson ever taught by Heaven,
66 Forgive," vindictive man, and be forgiven-
"As you by God's free proferred " mercy" live,
"Oh learn the heavenly wisdom to "" forgive;"
"In harsher bosoms pain shall never cease,
"But mercy's ways are pleasantness and peace."
Thus from the cross, the words of mercy fall
On all mankind, for they were meant for all,-
But "
vengeance" steps between, and high in air
Exultant waves the signal of despair,

O'er dale and heath her fiery steps have passed,
More swift than cataract, or mountain blast,

Nor stops she short, till through the peaceful vale,
Of horror burst the scream, of death ascend the wail!
Beneath that fading beam, what deeds are done,
To startle solitude, and veil the sun!

Around that livid flame, what shapes of hell,
At studied interval repeat the yell!—

Here stalks the Indian in his native garb,

Armed with the scalping knife, and poisoned barb,
Around the broiling captive takes his walk,
And deep in " Vengeance" bathes his tomahawk,
The spirit of his Father smiles on high,
Beams from his fleecy cloud, and passes by !-

Beneath our eyes, amidst the "village crew,”
What kindred characters arise to view.-

"A Lusty Boy!"-the midwife hands him round,
The listening gossips chuckle at the sound,
And to augment a fondling mother's joy,
Each "

queasy dame" repeats,-" A Lusty Boy."
Now twelvemonths old, this lusty little man,
To stand erect, and mark his feet, began-
Anon he walks, with veering trembling pace,
Now forward shooting, falls upon his face,
Laments his woes in sorrow-breathing squalls,
And for "commiseration" loudly calls:
Commiseration is a mother's part,

"Tis her's to sooth the grief, to heal the smart,
'Tis her's to punish what can feel no pain,

'Tis her's to strike what cannot strike again,

And thus with thoughtless cure, and method strange,
In her own infant's breast implant " revenge,"
Thus early sow the thistle seeds of strife,

And make a howling wilderness of life.

Not quite an infant, and not quite a boy,
How will this tiny youth his hours employ ?
Let him remain in combat, game, or race,
The little boisterous tyrant of the place.
O'er cats and kittens daringly prevail—
Of drowning puppy laugh to hear the wail—
Of chirping sparrows' brood arrest the breath,
Rejoicing in the agonies of death!--

And should he scorn his mother, where's the crime,
These "little errors"-will correct in time,
One cannot always beat, and if one could,
Eternal beating, might do little good.

And now to school he plods his noisy way,
To spell, to count, to trifle, and to play,
To scorn the teacher, disregard the laws,
"Revenge" to meditate beneath the "taws,"
To combat fiercely, his address to shew,
And fairly prove his talents by "a blow."

Determined, bold, impetuous, and strong,
His youth like mountain-torrent sweeps along,
O'er Nature's sweets the poisoned waters flow,
And where the daisy bloom'd unseemly briars grow.
Now is he smith apprenticed, and he knows
On heated iron to descend in blows-

The bellows pour their breath, with brightening glow
The metal softens into wax below.

Awhile his youth and inexperience bind

The native darings of a restless mind;

Awhile his couch in nightly sleep is pressed,

And, tired with ten hours' work, he sinks to rest;
Awhile he bears reproof, nor risks reply,
Beneath the lourings of a master's eye;

But nature will return, although you strive,
With fork to ward her off, with force to drive.

A" cock-fight" was announced, and caught the car
Of one to whom all "cruelties" were dear.

The distance great-but then such sports were rare ;
The day was short-his master had a mare;
His master saw no cause, nor would he lend
Consent or aid to such unworthy end.
"Denial in my need!-but time shall try,
Who shall repent this usage you or I."

These accents struggled in the swelling throat,
Nor was this lowly-muttered threat forgot;

For scarce three weeks had passed, when, with a glare
Of dumb affright, a horror-speaking stare,

The master's eye bespoke " his mangled mare!"

We may not reach perfection in a day—

The moon of night succeeds the twilight ray-
And, step by step, the ladder we ascend,

Whether to heaven we rise, or towards a scaffold tend.
Our hero-what's his name?-(why, that is true,
Tis fit he had a name so call him " Hugh,")-
Hugh stood amazed: "The act he would not deem
A human act-did he behold, or dream?
Some wandering miscreant sure, some Irish rogue,
He marked indeed last night, a surly dog;
He did not like his aspect at the time,
But little thought he then of such a crime."
And thus the villain's wondering part he plays,
By downright artifice his guilt betrays;
Disgraced, dismissed, where can he now repair!
He seeks a secret pass, and " murders" there

His master-basely "murders"-shrieks, and flics;

Is taken-tried-convicted-shrieved-and dies!

Dies on a scaffold, cursing, in his death,

The breast that gave him strength, the hour that gave him breath!


LONG had the cheek, by seeming health o'erspread,
Through parent's breast, delusive pleasure shed;
The fevered pulse, the spirit-lacking eye,
Had swelled, in that sad breast, the stifled sigh;
By hope and fear her soul alternate swayed,
Had lingered in decline the "village maid."

The wedding-day was fixed the mother knew;
The secret joy had whispered to a few ;
And all the village, all the country near,
Had joyed or grieved the whispered tale to hear.

Consumption crept with silent pace amain,
She felt no sickness, and she owned no pain;
Yet listless passed the lately joyous day,
And all her roses hastened to decay.
At each successive step become more bold,
The spoiler now unveils his deadly hold;
Life's vitals grasps, till all the boiling blood
Pours o'er the burning cheek its crimson flood.

I met her noon-day steps along the plain,
She moved with heaviness, and breathed with pain;
And ever and anon, with " blade of knife,”
Upturned the grassy sod in quest of life,
Inhaled the fresh'ning influence with care,
Nor of the passing stranger seemed aware.

There needs no more the features to pourtray
Of youth and beauty hastening to decay;
A parent's grief suppressed, a lover's wail,
Sum up the burden of my mournful tale;
Whilst Recollection, o'er the passing bier,
In silence stoops again, and drops a tear.

The hour is twelve-but few, and far between,
Th' invited mourners slowly gather in,-
Await the "Service" with attentive eye,
And prove their sympathy by many a sigh.
Now Elder Jonathan, with bonnet blue,
Veils his devotion meekly from the view-
In accents slow-lugubrious-loud-and long,
Pours the discursive fervours of his song.

This mournful prelude past, the circling glass,
Short-bread and bun, in quick succession pass;
A while in pairs, with whispering tone, they tell
How harvests ripen, and how cattle sell;
What accidents last market evening knew,
How "Sutor John" was beaten black and blue,-
Till all its power resumed, the loosened tongue
With rustic jest and merriment is hung.


They lift"-the bed resigns its coffined clay,
Which, in slow moving march, is borne away;
And now, with bending step, and starting tear,
The father takes his station at the bier-
Once more supports his daughter's drooping head,
And lowers it gently to its narrow bed.


4 M

The closing grave resumes its promised trust,
And all a parent's hope returns to dust.
Meanwhile the village dames in crowds repair,
The female grief and female pint to share→→→
O'er Jenny's fate sad lamentations raise,
And fuddle all their senses in her praise.


APPROACH the bed-the doors wide open throw-
Give air, and light-give all thou canst bestow ;-
The chamber clear of every cottage breath,
And watch the features of approaching death.

Does age expire, whilst o'er the placid eye
The shades of death in softened twilight lie?
Thro' all the youthful frame does fever hold
His fitful revelry of heat and cold?

Alas! the sufferer's years forbid decay-
Insulted reason still maintains her sway;

"Tis "Conscience" holds her grasp, and thrusts her dart, In grinning triumph to the sinner's heart.

"How many Sabbaths-ah, how many tell,
Did I my time and better reason sell

In worse than folly-worse than madness live,
Forgive, oh God of mercy, yet forgive.

"The hour of pardon past-all hope is fled-
My sentence sealed-the messenger has sped!
Before my aching eyes I see him stand,-
My condemnation waving in his hand.

"My wife-my dearest wife withstand his power-
Oh children, shield me in this fearful hour.
My God protect. They may not—cannot come.
I am, oh fearful thought, I am UNDONE.

"Deserted-dragged to never-ending night,
Unseemly darkness ever on my sight.

I know I hear-I feel the vengeance due,
And hell unfolds her horrors to my view.

"Expectant shapes attend in dread array,
To bear me in their closing fangs away.
No longer can I breathe, no longer live.
Forgive, oh God of mercy-yet forgive."



(WE make the following extracts from a small pamphlet,* which lately issued from a provincial press in Ireland. It has probably never met the view of any of our readers, at least in Great Britain. The copy we have before us was sent by a friend, who wished to point out a complimentary passage in it with respect to ourselves. As the author, on transferring from our pages to his a few sentences that bear on a part of his argument, has mentioned us under the flattering and alliterative description of "one of the most able and popular productions of the periodical press," it might be expected that we should return the compliment in kind; but, though we are obliged to him for his complimentary phrase, we have not time to imitate it.

This little work consists of a series of Letters, in answer to a pamphlet by a Roman Catholic priest, against what he, with rather irreverent irony, styles, "the blessed effects of Bible-reading" and the diffusion of Scriptural education, mixed with some attacks on the leading points of Protestantism. To these the answer appears very well executed; but we have no stomach to take any part in the so often fought battle between the friends and enemies of Popery; nor would it be fair, as we have not seen the work of our author's antagonist, to attempt any decision on this occasion. But the last letter is curious per se, as it gives a picture of the state of manners among the lower classes in Ireland, and some details with respect to the state of education in that country, which derive a character of authenticity from being written and published on the spot, and must be new to many of our readers. Believing as we do, and as we have often expressed, that the vital interests of a country depend, in a most material degree, on the education of its people, it grieves us to perceive that the Roman Catholic clergy have made such a point of opposing every effort to diffuse its blessings among the population of Ireland. We are, however, strong in the hope, that it is not in the power of any men or body of men to defeat its progress ultimately, however successful they may be in retarding it; nor can we divest ourselves of the idea, that the Roman Catholic clergy, who are daily becoming a more respectable and enlightened order of men, will eventually of themselves put their shoulders to the good work, instead of using their influence to hurt it. We think, in fact, that they pay themselves but a sorry compliment in thus tacitly admitting, that their power is supported by the ignorance of their flocks. It is idle to talk of proselytizing efforts being made to diminish their numbers, and of education being the stalking horse to further such efforts. Whatever might have been formerly the case, no such spirit now exists in Protestant Ireland. While the Whigs had domination, indeed, forcible or invidious methods to obtain proselytes, and to root out the Roman Catholic religion by the sword of the law, were certainly resorted to, but on the downfall of Whig power such projects were abandoned. And yet, with this undeniable fact staring us in the face-with the fact, equally undeniable, that all the heavy penal laws imposed on the Roman Catholics by the Whigs were repealed by the Tories on their return to power, we hear the worthy lights of the worthy faction of "all the talents" putting themselves forward as the champions of Catholic Ireland, and stigmatizing as its enemies the very party which relieved it from the galling yoke imposed on it by the men, who are boastfully quoted as the political ancestors of its noisy advocates. But we shall perhaps find another opportunity of contrasting Whig and Tory conduct, with respect to this celebrated question; and it is time to let Mr Waugh, for such we understand is the author's name, speak for himself. We think it will be allowed that he does so in a manner highly creditable to him, and we are happy to bear testimony to the truth of his observations with respect to Scotland. EDIT.)

* Six Letters, addressed to the Right Hon. Charles Grant, occasioned by "Remarks on Methodism, and the blessed effects of Bible-reading." By Simplicius. Cork. Bol ster. 1820.

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