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You mark the plan of God, in " mercy" laid,
You drink his words in "meekness" as they flow,
O'er dale and heath her fiery steps have passed,
Nor stops she short, till through the peaceful vale,
Around that livid flame, what shapes of hell,
Here stalks the Indian in his native garb,
Armed with the scalping knife, and poisoned barb,
Beneath our eyes, amidst the "village crew,”
"A Lusty Boy!"-the midwife hands him round,
queasy dame" repeats,-" A Lusty Boy."
"Tis her's to sooth the grief, to heal the smart,
'Tis her's to strike what cannot strike again,
And thus with thoughtless cure, and method strange,
And make a howling wilderness of life.
Not quite an infant, and not quite a boy,
And should he scorn his mother, where's the crime,
And now to school he plods his noisy way,
Determined, bold, impetuous, and strong,
The bellows pour their breath, with brightening glow
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;
But nature will return, although you strive,
A" cock-fight" was announced, and caught the car
The distance great-but then such sports were rare ;
These accents struggled in the swelling throat,
For scarce three weeks had passed, when, with a glare
The master's eye bespoke " his mangled mare!"
We may not reach perfection in a day—
The moon of night succeeds the twilight ray-
Whether to heaven we rise, or towards a scaffold tend.
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!
THE VILLAGE FUNERAL.
LONG had the cheek, by seeming health o'erspread,
The wedding-day was fixed the mother knew;
Consumption crept with silent pace amain,
I met her noon-day steps along the plain,
There needs no more the features to pourtray
The hour is twelve-but few, and far between,
This mournful prelude past, the circling glass,
They lift"-the bed resigns its coffined clay,
The closing grave resumes its promised trust,
« THE DYING VILLAGER.”
APPROACH the bed-the doors wide open throw-
Does age expire, whilst o'er the placid eye
Alas! the sufferer's years forbid decay-
"Tis "Conscience" holds her grasp, and thrusts her dart, In grinning triumph to the sinner's heart.
"How many Sabbaths-ah, how many tell,
In worse than folly-worse than madness live,
"The hour of pardon past-all hope is fled-
"My wife-my dearest wife withstand his power-
"Deserted-dragged to never-ending night,
I know I hear-I feel the vengeance due,
"Expectant shapes attend in dread array,
SIMPLICIUS ON THE STATE OF IRELAND.
(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.