Remorseless fiend! relax thy hold;
The demons were cast out of old,

And I will cling to Jesus' knee;
Oh! let him speak, and thou must flee.

THE DELEGATE'S SOLILOQUI.

.

Tadjourn or not adjourn, that is the question:
Whether 'tis better for one here to suffer
The toils and labors of amassing money,
Or to stand firm against a sea of motions,
And by opposing, end them ?—T' adjourn,-go home-
No more ; and by adjournment, say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to.-'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. T'adjourn; go home ;-
Go home! Perchance turn’d out ! aye, there's the rub;
For in that phrase, go home, what things are couch’d,
When we have shuffled off this legal coil,
Must give us pause: There's the respect
That makes our sessions of so long a life ;
For who could bear these “fly-slow” hours of time;
Th’ Alligator's* wrongs—the rich man's contumely,
The pangs of parted love-the laws delay'd,
The log-rolling for office—and the scoffs
That want of merit on a speaker brings,
When we ourselves might our quietus make
By a bare voting ?—who would dullness bear
To chase and groan under a weary life,
But that the dread of something at one's home;
The ever wav'ring country, from whose bourne,
Few delegates return-puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to greater, that we know well of,
.Thus interest doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of good intention

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear, And enterprizes of no pith or moment With this regard, attentive ear receive And get the name of action.

THE MAN IN THE MOON. Yon lonely man, I've heard them say,

Who looks from out the moon, Broke, when on earth, the Sabbath day,

And work'da worthless loon!~
When I first heard he was a man,

It used to be my whim,
On lonely nights, his form to scan,

Until my eyes grew dim. Methought I saw, quite plain enough,

His body, legs, and axe-
But then his head seem'd always off,

Which made me doubt the facts.
A beacon in the sky, he stands,

To warn poor sinful man
To rest that day, as God commands,

And then to work again.
How cold he looks within the Moon !

His shoulder'd axe he shows
And woodman like, with clouted shoon,

He seems to wade through snows. In winter, when the Moon doth swim

Adown the clear cold sky,
And not a soul is out but him,

There is he, still on high!
When storms deform her silv'ry face,

Which now and then she shrouds,
There is he, ever in his place,

Careering 'mid the clouds !

What art thou doing, lonely thing!

With axe in that cold clime ?
No wood thou'st e’er been seen to bring,

In all recorded time.
There art thou left, a monument

Of what on earth befel,
Still bent upon your vain intent,

Like Sysiphus in hell.
So here on earth, fixed on a rock

Out in the distant sea,
A scoffer* too was made a mock,

As scoffers ought to be.
Your fate and his seem parallel,

At least in some degree;
Your bosoms both became the hell,

From which you could not flee.
But yet his fate was worse than yours,

He only saw the sea
That wash'd far off the happy shores

Where fondly he would be.
A wat'ry waste his prospect lone,

Instead of glittering arms,
Which won for him a glorious throne-

Naught else for him had charms.
Whilst thou, in thy resplendent car,

Hast seen in its careers
All heaven, earth, and sea, and air,

For many thousand years.
Let not thy wretched bosom pine,

For such a world as this,
Methinks a punishment like thine

Must have some smack of bliss. But no—a sombre shade it flings,

To feel guilt’s constant goad, And sea, earth, air, and heav'nly things,

But aggravate the load.

* Napoleon.

Farewell to thee, old Anchorite

And do not yet despair-
We'll come to you some lovely night

By sailing through the air.
Since you have left the earth for moon,

Man every thing can do,
And he, perchance, in silk balloon,

May come and chat with you.

MILITARY GLORY. The bones of the soldiers who fell at Waterloo, have been dug up and transported to Hull in England, to be ground into manure and sold to the farmers.- English Paper.

Alas! what a picture is here,
And what shadows we vainly pursue !

Ye lovers of Glory! come near
Lo, the field where in triumph the British flag flew !
The great Aceldama! the far-fam'd Waterloo !

Behold what of Glory survives !-Here are wretches, exhuming the bones

Of heroes, who perild their lives, And who fell amidst carnage, commingling their groans, That the scourgers of earth might be seated on thrones.

To England they bear them to grind Unto powder to fertilize land

To her who hath borne them, consign'd; And the dust of the son who died wielding his brand, To be scatter'd on earth by a parent's own hand ! !

Ambition! sit then on this plain, Like the prophet Ezekiel of yore,

“Dry bones” are here “shaking” again“Will the flesh and the sinews come on them once more ?” “Or the breath come again, when they hear the winds

Ah, yes, when the trumpet shall sound,
At whose summons the boldest heart faints !

But will they with laurels be crown'd?
No-the glory no tarnish from earth ever taints
Shall be theirs." The great army of martyrs and saints."

The soldiers of Christ shall be crown'd,
When the trumpet shall rouse them from sleep;

Where then will earth's heroes be found ?-
O'er this field and the fallen what heart but must weep?
For “who soweth the wind, he the whirlwind must reap.

1

PICTURES BY THE SUN.
I've studied thee, bright Sun, in many a lecture,

And at thy power have been filled with wonder;
But never dreamt that thou could'st make a picture,

Without the least defect, or smallest blunder;
Oh for a sight of those soft pictured pages
Thou hast “Daguerreotyped” for countless ages!
Of these, thou must have doubtless many legions,

As well of this world as of those far hence; “Of Planets, Suns, and Adamantine regions,

Wheeling, unshaken, through the void immense;"4 Where hang those pictures ?-in what mighty Louvre? And which, I pray thee, was thy great chef d'oeuvre ? When first thou look’dst upon the world then void

When all was dark, and things about were bandied
In taking sketches, wert thou then employ'd,

As ev'ry object into form expanded?
If so, and we could make thee, Sun, obey us,
We'd have that scene august, of Ancient Chaos.
We'd like to see our great first parent, Adam,

As when he strolled about his charming garden;
And as he gazed upon the first fair madam,

Who came to soften, but alas ! did harden.

* Hosea, chap. viii.
+ Planets, Suns, and Adamantine spheres
Wheeling, unshaken, through the void immense. Akenside.