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same stern, impatient, inflexible original-the same mysterious incomprehensible self-the man without a model and without a shadow.
Extract from Mr. HOPKINSON'S Discourse before the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.
When some eminent citizen, eminent by his virtue, devotes his life, and all his faculties, to the service of his country; when, by an illustrious sacrifice of himself he averts some dreaded calamity, some threatening ruin, what has the gratitude, the justice of a republic to give? How shall she acknowledge and acquit the obligation? Instead of rank and titles incompatible with her principles; instead of grants and pensions which exhaust the public wealth, and excite rather a spirit of avarice or luxury, than patriotism, the vast debt is cheaply paid by the skill of the artist consecrated by the voice of the nation. Such rewards neither encourage nor gratify any sor did disposition, but operate only on the generous, the disinterested, the sublime passions of the soul. They neither give power, nor endanger liberty; yet they satisfy the patriot, and excite the noblest emulation. The greatest minds are impelled to their boldest exploits by the suggestions of honour, and the prospect of some public and permanent testimony of their merit and services. "A Peerage or Westminster Abbey," was in the heart and on the lips of the immortal Nelson whenever he was about to plunge into some perilous enterprize. When hereafter our commonwealth shall produce Nelsons blazing with glory; when we shall have statesmen and generals rivaling the heroes of the ancient republics in the purity of their virtue and importance of their services, performed by incredi ble exertions, by extreme suffering, by premature death, where is the art or the artist to bear down to future ages the fame of their achievements, or proclaim the gratitude of their country. Shall we disgracefully apply to the very enemy they have defeated, to commemorate the triumph? Must the conqueror stoop to the conquered, acknowledging a degrading and mortifying inferiority?
Athens was the teacher of Rome in those things which really dignify a nation, after the arms of Rome had subjugated the liberties of Greece; and Athens is now remembered and revered more as the mistress of learning and the arts than for all her victories.
But shall any future patriot hope to have his memory perpetuated, when "Washington" lies neglected. Not a stone tells the stranger where the hero is laid. No proud column declares that his country is grateful. If but an infant perish, even before its smiles have touched a parent's love, he marks, with some honour, the earth that covers it. "Tis the last tribute which the humblest pay to the most humble.
"Yet e'en those bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh;
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd ;
The stranger who in days to come, shall visit our shore, will exclaim, show me the statue of your "Washington," that I may contemplate the majestic form that encompassed his mighty soul; that I may gaze upon those features once lighted with every virtue; and learn to love virtue as I behold them. Alas! there is no such statue. Lead me then, American, to the tomb your country has provided for her deliverer; to the everlasting monument she has erected to his fame.
Alas! His grave is in the bosom of his own soil, and the ccdar, that was watered by his hand, is all that rests upon it. Tell me whence is this supineness? Is it envy, jealousy, or ingratitude? Or is it that, in the great struggle for power and place, every thing else is forgotten; every noble, generous, and national sentiment disregarded or despised? Whatever be the cause, the curse of ingratitude is upon us until it be removed,
GINEVRA from Italy, a Poem.
If ever you should come to Modena
"Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
She sits inclining forward as to speak,
She was an only child, her name Ginevra,
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
Tis but to make a trial of our love!'
"Twas but that instant she had left Francesco
Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and embarking,
When he was gone the house remain'd awhile
That mouldering chest was noticed, and twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra ; "Why not remove it from its lurking place?" 'Twas done as soon as said, but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished-save a wedding ring
Lines written by Bishop HEBER to his Wife.
If thou wert by my side, my love!
If thou, my love! wert by my side,
I miss thee at the dawning gray,
I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
I spread my books, my pencil try,
But when of morn and eve the star
Then on! Then on! where duty leads,
That course nor Delhi's kingly gates,
For sweet the bliss us both awaits,
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea,
But never were hearts so light and gay,
THE CYPRESS WREATH.-Walter Scoti,
O lady, twine no wreath for me,
Let dimpled mirth his temples twine