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ture must not be omitted. The jailer of the press, he affected the patronage of letters-the proscriber of books, he encouraged philosophy-the persecutor of authors and the murderer of printers, he yet pretended to the protec tion of learning! the assassin of Palm, the silencer of De Staël, and the denouncer of Kotzebue, he was the friend of David, the benefactor of De Lille, and sent his academic prize to the philosopher of England. Such a medley of contradictions, and at the same time such an individual consistency, were never united in the same character.—A royalist-a republican and an emperor-a Mohammedana Catholic and a patron of the synagogue-a subaltern ano a sovereign-a traitor and a tyrant--a Christian and an infidel-he was, through all his vicissitudes, the same stern impatient, inflexible original-the same mysterious, incomprehensible self-the man without a reedel, and with out a shadow. PAVLIPS

i88.-DIALOGUE: ALEXANDER THE GREAT, AND ▲ 19WEP

Alexander. WHAT, art thou the Thracian robber, of whose exploits I have heard so much?

Robber. I am a Thracian, and a soldier.

Alex. A soldier! a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! the pest of the country! I could honour thy courage, but 1 must detest and punish thy crimes.

Rob. What have I done, of which you can complain? Alex. Hast thou not set at defiance my authority; violated the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring the persons and properties of thy fellow subjects?

Rob. Alexander! I am your captive; I must hear what you please to say, and endure what you please to inflict But my soul is unconquered; and if I reply at all to your reproaches, I will reply like a free man.

Alex Speak freely. Far be it from me to take the advantage of my power, to silence those with whom I deign to converse.

Rob. I must then answer your question by another. How have you passed your life?

Alex. Like a hero. Ask fame, and she will tell you.

Among the brave, I have been the bravest among sovereigns, the noblest: among conquerers, the mightiest.

Rob. And does not fame speak of me too? Was there ever a bolder captain of a more valiant band? Was there ever, but I scorn to boast. You yourself know that I have not been easily subdued.

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Alex. Still, what are you but a robber, a base, dishonest robber?

Rob. And what is a conqueror? Have not you, too, gone about the earth like an evil genius, blasting the fair fruits of peace and industry; plundering, ravaging, killing, without law, without justice, merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion? All that I have done to a single district with a hundred followers, you have done to whole nations with a hundred thousand. If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and princes. If I have burnt a few hamlets, you have desolated the most flourishing kingdoms and cities of the earth. What is, then, the difference, but that as you were born a king, and I a private man, you have been able to become a mightier robber than I?

Alex. But if I have taken like a king, I have given like a king. If I have subverted empires, I have founded greater. I have cherished arts, commerce, and philosophy.

Rob. I, too, have freely given to the poor what I took from the rich. I have established order and discipline among the most ferocious of mankind, and have stretched out my protecting arm over the oppressed. I know, indeed, little of the philosophy you talk of, but I believe neither you nor I shall ever atone to the world for half the mischief we have done it.

Alex. Leave me. Take off his chains, and use him well. Are we then so much alike? Alexander like a Let me reflect. DR. AIKIN.

robber!

169-THANATOPSIS.

To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides

Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.

When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;
Go forth under the open sky, and list

To nature's teaching, while from all around,
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,
Comes a still voice; yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image.

Earth that nourish'd thee shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain.
Turns with his share, and treads upon.

The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thy eternal resting place

Shalt thou retire alone; nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world, with kings,
The powerful of the earth; the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.

The hills,

Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and pour'd round all
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste;

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man.

The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that treac The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings, yet, the dead are there. And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep; the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall Unheeded by the living; and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee.

As the long train Of ages glide away the sons of men.

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,
Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustain'd and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

BRYANT.

170. THE DIAMOND RING.

YE ladies fair, with sunny smiles,
Come listen unto me,

While I rehearse what once befell
A dame of high degree.

A dame of high degree-and fair
As statue carved of old;

Her eyes were blue as sapphire gleams,
Her ringlets were like gold.

Her every motion breathed of grace,
Yet destitute of art;

And with her voice of music, spoke
The language of her heart.
Her husband was a gentleman,
From ancient nobles sprung;
By men esteem'd, by women loved,
Handsome, and brave, and young.

He dwelt upon his own domain,
In his ancestral home;

Nor felt a wish unsatisfied
In foreign climes to roam.

But with his lady dear he spent
Each blissful day and night;
And in the car of time they threw
Fresh roses of delight.

Alas! the fate of happiness

In this uncertain world!

When clouds arise, love's silken sails

Must speedily be furl'd.

The pennon, that so gayly flew,

Hangs idly to the mast;

And waves grow dark beneath the frown

Of the approaching blast.

The beauteous dame, alas! fell ill;

All human aid was vain,

To rend the arrow from her side

Or mitigate the pain.

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