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The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea ;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea;
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone.
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the waves his own;
And when the ship from his fury flies,
When the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on the shore,
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

11.—THE WAR INEVITABLE.

PATRICK HENRY. It is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope; we are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern our temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it.

I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and this House? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received ? Trust it not, sir, it will prove a snare to your feet; suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation ? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation, and the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask the gentlemen, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive

? for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us: they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held it up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, let us not deceive ourselves longer. We have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parliament. Our petitions have been slighted, our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult, our supplications have been disregarded, and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot of the throne. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. wish to be free, if we wish to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending, if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, we must fight! I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms, and to the God of hosts, is all that is left us !

If we

They tell us, sir, that we are weak—unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in

our power.

Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest; there is no retreat but in submission and slavery. Our chains are forged; their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston: the war is inevitable, and let it come; I repeat it, sir-let it come! It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry peace, peace ! but there is no peace! The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field ! why stand we here idle ? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me-give me liberty, or give me death !

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12.—THE IRISHWOMAN'S LETTER.

ANONYMOUS.
And shure, I was tould to come in till yer honor,

To see would ye write a few lines to me Pat,
He's gone for a soger, is Misther O'Conner,

Wid a sthripe on his arm, and a band on his hat.
And what 'ill you tell him ? Shure it must be aisy

For the likes of your honor to spake wid the pen;
Tell him I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy,

(The baby, yer honor,) is better again.
For when he wint off, so sick was the crayther

She niver hilt up her blue eyes till his face;
And, when I'd be cryin', he'd look at me wild-like,

And ax "would I wish for the counthry's disgrace ?"
So he left her in danger, and me sorely gravin',

And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy;
And it's often I drame of the big drums a batin',

And a bullet gone straight to the heart of me boy.

Tell him to sind us a bit of his money,

For the rint and the docther's bill, due in a wake,
And—shure there's a tear on your eyelashes, honey,

l' faith I've no right with such fradom to spake.
I'm over much thrilling, I'll not give ye trouble,

I'll find some one willin' Oh, what can it be?
What's that in the newspaper folded up double ?

Yer honor, don't hide it, but rade it to me!
Dead! Patrick O'Conner! Oh God, it's some ither.

Shot dead! shure 'tis a wake scarce gone by,
And the kiss on the chake of his sorrowin' mother,

It hasn't had time yet, yer honor, to dhry.
Dead! dead! Oh God, am I crazy?

Shure it's brakin' my heart ye are, tellin' me so,
And what en the warld will I do wid

poor Daisy?
Oh, what can I do? and where can I go?
This room is so dark I'm not seein' yer honor;

I think I'll go home. ... And a sob, hard and dry,
Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Conner,

But never a tear-drop welled up to her eye.

13.—APOSTROPHE TO WATER.

A. W. ARRINGTON. Where is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all His cuildren? Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded with the stench of sickening odors, and

rank corruptions, doth your Father in Heaven prepare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play, there God brews it. And down, low down in the deepest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; and high upon the tall mountain-tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun; where the storm-cloud broods, and the thunder-storms crash; and away far out on the wide wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar, the chorus sweeping the march of God: there He brews it, that beverage of life, the health giving water. And everywhere it is a thing of beauty-gleaming in the dew-drop; singing in the summer rain; shining in the ice-gem, till the leaves all seem turned to living jewels; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun, or a white gauze around the midnight moon; sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail-shower; folding its bright snow-curtains softly about the wintry world; and weaving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all chequered over with celestial flowers by the mystic hand of refraction. Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water; no poison bubbles on its brink; its foam brings not madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans weep no burning tears in its depths; no drunken shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the words of eternal despair. Speak on, my friends: would

: you exchange it for the demon's drink, alcohol?

14.-HANNAH, THE MOTHER.

ANONYMOUS.
“The Master has come over Jordan,”

Said Hannah, the mother, one day;
“Is healing the people who throng Him,

With a touch of His finger, they say.
And now I shall carry the children,-

Little Rachel and Samuel and John;
I shall carry the baby Esther,

For the Lord to look upon."
The father looked at her kindly;

But he shook his head and smiled,
“Now, who but a doting mother

Would think of a thing so wild ?
If the children were tortured by demons,

Or dying of fever, 'twere well;
Or had they the taint of the leper,

Like many in Israel."
'Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan;

I feel such a burden of care:
If I carry it to the Master,

Perhaps I shall leave it there.
If He lay His hand on the children,

My heart will be lighter, I know;
For a blessing forever and ever

Will follow them as they go."
So over the hills of Judah,

Along by the vine-rows green,
With Esther asleep on her bosom,
And Rachel her brothers between :

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