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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 ;
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh."

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
Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you,
And look awhile upon a picture there.

"Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family:
He-who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gains his fill, comes and comes again
That he may call it up, when far away.

She sits inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said, "Beware:" her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers and clasp'd from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp ;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.

She was an only child, her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year, became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling for the hundreth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting,
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,

Tis but to make a trial of our love!'
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.

"Twas but that instant she had left Francesco
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger;
But now alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed,
But that she was not!

Weary of his life,

Francesco flew to Venice, and embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Donati lived, and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find, he knew not what..

When he was gone the house remain'd awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

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
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with the name of both, "Ginevra,"
There then she had found a grave!
Within that chest-had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy,
When a spring lock, that lay in ambush
Fasten'd her down forever!

Lines written by Bishop HEBER to his Wife.

If thou wert by my side, my love!
How fast would evening fail,
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love! wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,
How gaily would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam,
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! Then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still,
On broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er black Almorah's hill.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor mild Malwah detain,

For sweet the bliss us both awaits,
By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea,

But never were hearts so light and gay,
As then shall meet in thee!


O lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!
Too lovely glow the lilies light,
The varnished holly's all too bright,
The May-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine:
But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress tree.

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live-
But that, Matilda, will not give ;
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me-
Or twine it of the cypress tree.

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