R. Did not the rigid censurers of vice,
Who in their social circles are so nice;
The prim, the pure, the pious, and precise,
Consign to infamy's remotest den,
And hoot the monster from the haunts of men?
D. Ah, no! he boldly drives his mad career,
Struts arm in arm with commoner and peer;
Whilst he can drink, and dance, and dice, and whore,
He's still" a damn'd good fellow," as before.
R. If rich, ne'er mind what conscience saith within, Here poverty alone is all the sin;
If at a tavern you can pay your stake,
What if each day you each commandment break.
O! did fond mothers rightly understand,
They train their offspring for a villain's hand;
When for external charms, and tinsel grace,
They slight the mental beauties of their race;
Few with bold mien, and limbs expos'd, would
From modest delicacy's chaste reserve.
But mark the lounge of fashionable fools,
The public dancings of our boarding-schools;
Their praise matures affected impudence,
And vanity runs riot with expense:
There coxcombs, hir'd to teach the tender fair
The wanton attitude, the wanton air,
Brush the fresh bloom from off the rip'ning plumb,
And leave it mellow for the time to come.
STANZAS WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.
AND it hath gone into the grave of time
The past-the mighty sepulchre of all !
That solemn sound-the midnight's mournful chime,
Was its deep dead-bell!-but, within the hall,
The old and young held gladsome festival.—
What hath it left them, thus to cause such joy?—
Gray hairs to some-and hearts less green to all,
And fewer steps to where their fathers lie
Low in the church-yard cell-cold-dark-and silently.
Strange time for mirth-when round the leafless
The wild winds of the winter moan and sigh,
And while the twilight saddens o'er the lea,
Mute every woodland's evening melody-
Mute the wide landscape-save where, hurrying by,
Roars the dark torrent on its headlong flight,
Or, slowly sailing through the blackening sky,
Hoots unto solitude the bird of night,
Seeking the domeless wall-the turret's hoary height:
And yet with Nature, sooth, we need not grieve;
She does not heed the woes of human kind:
No; for the tempests howl, the waters heave
Their hoary hills unto the raging wind,
And the poor bark no resting-place can find ;
And friends on shore shall weep-and weep in vain, For, to the ruthless elements consign'd,
The seaman's corpse is drifting through the main, Ne'er to be seen by them-nor heard of e'er again!
Now o'er the skies the orbs of light are spread,
And through yon shoreless sea they wander on :-
Where is the place of your abode, ye dead?
To what far regions have your spirits gone ?
But ye are silent-silent as the stone
That gathers moss above your bed of rest,
And from the land of souls returneth none
To tell us of the place to which we haste :
But time will tell us all-and time will tell us best.
How still-how soft and yet how dread is all
The scene around!—the silent earth and air !
What glorious lamps are hung in Night's high hall—
Her domeso vast, magnificent, and fair!
Oh! for an angel's wing, to waft me there!
How sweet, methinks, e'en for one little day,
To leave this cold, dull sphere of cloud and care,
And midst the immortal bowers above, to stray
In lands of light and love-unblighted by decay!
Surely there is a language in the sky-
A voice that speaketh of a world to come;
It swells from out thy depths, Immensity!
And tells us this is not our final home.—
As the toss'd bark, amidst the ocean's foam,
Hails, through the gloom, the beacon o'er the wave ;
So from life's troubled sea, o'er which we roam,
The stars, like beacon lights, beyond the grave,
Shine through the deep, o'er which our barks we
hope to save!
Now gleams the moon on Arthur's mighty crest,
That dweller of the air-abrupt and lone;
Hush'd is the city in her nightly rest;
But hark! there comes a sweet and solemn tone,
The lingering strains, that swell'd, in ages gone,
The music of the wake-oh! many an ear,
Rais'd from the pillow gentle sleep hath flown,
Lists with delight, while blend the smile and tear,
As recollections rise of many a vanish'd year.
It speaks of former scenes of days gone by---
Of early friendships of the lov'd and lost-
And wakes such music in the heart, as sigh
Of evening wooes from harpstrings gently crost;
And thoughts and feelings crowd—a varied host,
O'er the lone bosom from their slumbers deep,
Unfelt amidst its winter's gathering frost,
Till the soft spell of music o'er it creep,
And thaw the ice away, and bid the dreamer weep!
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
Drunkenness is either actual or habitual; just as it is one thing to be drunk, and another to be a drunkard. What we shall deliver upon the subject must principally be understood of a habit of intemperance; although part of the guilt and danger described, may be applicable to casual excesses; and all of it, in a certain degree, forasmuch as every habit is only a repetition of single instances.
The mischief of drunkenness, from which we are to compute the guilt of it, consists in the following bad effects:
1. It betrays most constitutions either to extravagances of anger, or sins of lewdness.
2. It disqualifies men for the duties of their station, both by the temporary disorder of their faculties, and at length by a constant incapacity and stupefaction.
3. It is attended with expenses, which can often be ill spared.
4. It is sure to occasion uneasiness to the family of the drunkard.
To these consequences of drunkenness must be added the peculiar danger and mischief of the example. Drunkenness is a social festive vice; apt, beyond any vice that can be mentioned, to draw in others. by the example. The drinker collects his circle ;
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