But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page And froze the genial current of the soul. The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, BENEVOLENCE:-HOWARD. MR. HOWARD, finding that his end was fast approaching, began to speak to Admiral Priestmann about his death. The Admiral endeavoured to turn the conversation, imagining the whole might be merely the result of low spirits; but Mr. Howard soon assured him it was otherwise, and added, "Death has no terrors for me: it is an event I have always looked to with cheerfulness, if not with pleasure; and be assured that it is to me a more grateful subject than any other." He then spoke of his funeral, and cheerfully gave directions concerning the manner of his interment. "There is a spot," said he, "near the village, which would suit me nicely; you know it well, for I have often said I should like to be buried there; and let me beg of you, as you value your old friend, not to suffer any pomp to be used at my burial; nor any monument, nor monumental inscription whatsoever to mark where I am laid; deposit me quietly in the earth, place a sun-dial over my grave, and let me be forgotten." A letter at this time arriving from England, containing pleasing information of his son, it was read aloud by his servant; upon the conclusion of which, Mr. Howard turning his head, said, "Is not this comfort for a dying father?" He then made the Admiral promise to read the service of the Church of Eng 88 BENEVOLENCE-HOWARD. land over his grave, and that he should be buried according to the forms of his own country. Having succeeded in his application, the countenance of Mr. Howard brightened, a gleam of evident satisfaction came over his face, and he prepared to go to bed. He then made his will; shortly after which, symptoms of delirium appeared After this he ceased to speak. A physician was called in, who prescribed the musk draught. A rattling in the throat ensued, and he shortly after breathed his last. "I cannot name this gentleman," says Mr. Burke, "without remarking that his labours and writings have done much to open the eyes and hearts of mankind He visited all Europe, not to survey the sumptuousness of palaces, or the stateliness of temples; not to make accurate measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur; not to form a scale of the curiosities of modern art; not to collect medals or collate manu scripts, but to dive into the depths of dungeons; to plunge into the infection of hospitals; to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain; to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, depression, and contempt; to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and to compare and collate the distresses of all men in all countries. His plan was original, and it was as full of genius as it was of humanity. It was a voyage of discovery; a circumnavigation of charity. The benefit of his labour is felt more or less in every country; and at the great day he will receive his reward.” MRS. ANNA BARBAULD. BORN, 1743; DIED, 1825. Principal Works.-Miscellaneous Poems, Early Lessous, Writings in "Evenings at Home." WOMAN. THROUGH many a land and clime a ranger, A lonely unprotected stranger, To all the stranger's ills a prey. While steering thus my course precarious, Alive to every tender feeling, To deeds of mercy ever prone; Her courteous looks, her words caressing, SENSIBILITY:-THE INDIAN CHIEF. DURING the war in America, a company of Indians attacked a small body of the British troops, and defeated them. As the Indians had greatly the advantage in swiftness of foot, and were eager in the pursuit, very few of the British escaped. Two of the Indians came up to a young officer, and attacked him with great fury. As they were armed with battle-axes, he had no hope of escape. But, just at this crisis, another Indian came up, who was advanced in years, and armed with a bow and arrows. The old man instantly drew his bow; but, after having taken his aim at the officer, he suddenly dropped the point of his arrow, and interposed between him and his pursuers, who were about to cut him in pieces. They retired with respect. The old man then took the officer by the hand, soothed him into confidence by caresses, and treated him with a kindness which did honour to his professions. He made him less a slave than a companion; taught him the language of the country; and instructed him in the rude arts that are practised by the inhabitants. They lived together in the most perfect harmony; and the young officer, in the treatment he met with, found nothing to regret, but that sometimes the old man fixed his eyes upon him, and, having regarded him for some minutes with a steady and silent attention, burst into tears. |