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upon its throne ; that, with a penetration so vigorous and clear, he dissipated these phantoms of fancy, rallied back the courage of the House to the charge, and, in the State of Virginia, in which Patrick Henry was almost adored as infallible, succeeded in throwing that Henry into a minority? Is this the proof of his want of energy? Or will you find it in the manner in which he watched the first movements of the Federal Constitution; in the boldness with which he resisted what he deemed infractions of its spirit; in the independence, ability, and vigor, with which, in spite of declining health, he maintained this conflict during eight years? He was then in a minority. Turn to the debates of Congress, and read his arguments : you will see how the business of a virtuous and able minority is conducted. Do you discover in them any evidence of want of energy? Yes; if energy consist, as you seem to think it does, in saying rude things, in brava'do and bluster, in pouring a muddy torrent of coarse invective, as destitute of argument as unwarranted by provocation, you will find great evidence of want of energy in his speeches.

3. But, if true energy be evinced, as we think it is, by the calm and dignified, yet steady, zealous, and persevering pursuit of an object, his whole conduct during that period is honorably marked with energy. And that energy rested on the most solid and durable basis — conscious rectitude; supported by the most profound and extensive information, by an habitual power of investigation, which unravelled, with intuitive certainty, the most intricate subjects; and an eloquence, chaste, luminous, and cogent, which won respect, while it forced conviction. We have compared some of your highest and most vaunted displays with the speeches of Mr. Madison, during his services in Congress. What a contrast! It is the noisy and short-lived babbling of a brook after a rain, compared with the majestic course of the Potomac.

4. Yet, you have the vanity and hardihood to ask for the proof of his talents! You, who have as yet shown no talents that can be of service to your country, — no talents beyond those of the merciless Indian, who dexterously strikes a tomahawk into the defenceless heart! But what an idea is yours of energy! You feel a constitutional irritability ;- you indulge it, and you call that indulgence energy! Sudden fits of spleen, transient starts of passion, wild paroxysms of fury, the more slow and secret workings of envy and resentment, cruel taunts and sarcasms, the dreams of disordered fancy, the crude abortions of short-sighted theory, the delirium and ravings of a hectic fever - this is your notion of energy! Heaven preserve our country from such energy as this! If this be the kind of energy which you deny to Mr. Madison, the people will concur in your denial, But, if you deny him that salutary energy which qualifies him to pursue his country's happiness and to defend her rights, we follow up the course of his public life, and demand the proof of your charge.

WM. WIRT.

CCV. — POETRY OF THE SEASONS.

PART FOUR.
1. A WINTER'S Sabbath SCENE. — Grahame.
How dazzling white the snowy scene ! deep, deep,
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day –
Not even a footfall heard. Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain :
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom
High-ridged, the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered keystoneal of the church-yard porch.
Mute hangs the hoodeder bell; the tombs lie buried ;
No step approaches to the house of prayer.

2. THE SNOW-STORM. — Emerson.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight : the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
In a tumultuous privacy of storni.
Come, see the north wind's masonry!
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work,
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel ħe hangs Parianti wreaths ;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugreet the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work :
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art,
To mimic in slow structures, stone hy stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

3. A WELCOME TO WINTER. — Thomson. See, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train, Vapors, and clouds, and storins. Be these my theme, These! that exalt the soul to solemn thought, And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms ! Congenial horrors, hail! with frequent foot, Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life, When nursed by careless Solitude I lived, And sung of Nature with unceasing joy, Pleased have I wandered through your rough domain , Trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure; Heard the winds roar, and the big torrents burst; Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brewed In the grim evening sky. T'hus passed the time. Till through the lucid chāmbers of the South Looked out the joyous Spring, looked out and smiled :

4. THE NEW YEAR. — Willis.
Fleetly bath passed the year. The seasons came
Duly as they were wont, — the gentle Spring,
And the delicious Summer, and the cool
Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And Winter, like an old and hòary man,
Frosty and stiff, — and so are chronicled.
We have read gladness in the new green leaf,
And in the first-blown violets; we have drunk
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade
Sunk to the noontide slumber ; we have plucked
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,
And girded to our pleasant wanderings
When the cool wind came freshly from the hille ;
And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves
Had faded from its glory, we have sat
By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced
Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf.

" God hath been very good.” 'Tis He whose hand
Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out
The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep
The fountains in their secret places cool ;
And it is He who leadeth up the sun,
And ordereth the starry influences,
And tempereth the keenness of the frost;
And, therefore, in the plenty of the feast,
And in the lifting of the cup, let Him
Have praises for the well-completed year.

CCVI. - POPE'S EPISTLE TO DOCTOR ARBUTHNOT.

When Pope had reached the meridian of his fame, he was beset, as many distinguished literary persons are at the present day, with applications froin numerous writers, who had mistaken a desire to write for the ability, to read and revise their compositions, and to use his influence in having them published. In this poetical epistle to his friend and physician, he humorously describes his annoyances ; and expresses his fears that Bedlam (the madtouse) or Parnassus has sent forth the troop of poetasters and scribblors who 'ie in wait for him.

1. “Shut, shut the door, good John ! ” fatigued, I said ;

“ Tie up the knocker ; say I'm sick -- I'm dead!” —
The dog-star rages! nay, 't is past a doubt
All Bedlam or Parnassusei is let out:
Fire in cach eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide ;
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Even Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.

2. Is there a parson much be-mused in beer,

A maudlinei poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk, fore-doomed his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross?
Is there166 who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls?
All fly to Twickenham,* and in humble strain
Apply to me to keep them mad or vain.

3. Friend to my life, which, did not you prolong,

The world had wanted many an idle song,
What drop or nostrum can this plaque remore?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ?
0, dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;
If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me dead.
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read
With honest anguish and an aching head,
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, “ Keep your piece nine rear: "

* Pope's villa, on the Thames.

4 " Nine years!” cries he, who, high in Drury Lane,

Inlled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term enda,
Obliged hy hunger and request of friends, –
“ The piece you think is incorrect? why, take it,
I'm all submission; wliat you 'd have it, make it." -
Three things another's modest wishes bound :
• My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.' -
Pitho'leon sends to me: “You know his grace,
I want a patron; ask him for a place.”
Pitholeon libelled me. — “ But here 's a letter
Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him16 Curll* invites to dine ?
He 'll write a journal, or he 'll turn divine.”

5

Bless me! a packet. — “ 'T is a stranger sues, –
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.
If I dislike it, “ Furies, death and rage ;"
If I approve, “ Commend it to the stage."
There (thank my stars!) my whole commission ends;
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fired that the house rejects him, “ 'Sdeath, I'll print it
And shame the fools, your interest, sir, with Lintot." —
Lintot,* dull rogue, will think your price too much.
“ Not, Sir, if you revise it and retouch."
All my demurs but double his attacks ;
At last he whispers, “ Do, and we go snacks." -
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,-

Sir, let me see your works and you no more !”

CCVII. —THE CHARIOT RACE, WITH THE DEATH OF ORESTES

1. THEY took their stand where the appointed judges

Had cast their lots and ranged the rival cars.
Rang out the brazen trump! Away they bound !
Cheer the hot steeds and shake the slackened reins ;
As with a body, the large space is filled
With the huge clangor of the rattling cars :
High whirl aloft the dust-clouds ; blent together
Each presses each, and the lash rings, and loud
Snort the wild steeds, and from their fiery breath,
Along their manes, and down the circling wheels,

Scatter the flaking foam.
2. Ores'tes still,

Aye,f as he swept around the perilous pillar,
Last in the course, wheeled in the rushing axle :

* A publisher in Pope's day. | Pronounced å ; meaning, always, ever.

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