O woman! | thine is still the power, |
Denied to all but only thee,

To chase away the clouds that lower, I
To harass life's eventful sea. I
Thou light of man! | his only joy |
Beneath a wide, and boundless sky, |
Long shall thy praise his tongue, employ, |
Sylph of the blue, and beaming eye,!]

ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

(COLLINS.)

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,]
Ere yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell, |
Exulting, trembling, | ra'ging, | fainting, |
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting. |
By turns they felt the glowing mind |
Disturb'd', delight'ed, | rais'd, refin'd、; }
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, }
Fill'd with fury, | rapt`, | inspir'd, }
From the supporting myrtles round', |
They snatch'd her instruments of sound
And, as they oft had heard, apart, |
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness rul'd the hour) |
Would prove his own expressive power. I

First, Fear', his hand, its skill to try,|
Amid the chords, bewilder'd, laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why', |

E'en at the sound himself had made. |
Next, An'ger rush'd; his eyes on fire, |
In lightnings own'd his secret stings; |
In one rude clash, he struck the lyre', |
And swept, with hurried hand, the strings. |

With wo'ful measures, wan Despair, |
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd; |
A solemn', strange', and mingl'd air:|
'Twas sad by fits; by starts, 't was wild. |
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, |
What was thy delighted measure? |
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, |

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! |
Still would her touch the strain prolong; |

And, from the rocks', | the woods', the vale, | She call'd on echo still, through all the song:| And, where her sweetest theme she chose, |

A soft, responsive voice was heard at every close; [ And Hope, enchanted, | smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.|

And longer had she sung; but, with a frown, |
Revenge, impatient, rose: |

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down-|
And with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trum'pet took, |

And blew a blast so loud, and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo;
And ever, and anon, he beat |

The doubling drum with furious heat: |
And, though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, |
Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice, applied; |

Yet still he kept his wild, unalter'd mien, | While each strain'd ball of sight, seem'd bursting from his head. |

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought', were fix'd—| Sad proof of thy distress ful state! |

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd ; | And now it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on

Hate.

With eyes, uprais'd, as one inspir'ḍ, |

Pale Melancholy sat retir'd; }

And, from her wild, sequester'd seat, | In notes by distance made more sweet, | Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul; And, dashing soft from rocks around, | Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; |

Through glades, and glooms, the mingl'd measure stole,| Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, | Round a holy calm diffusing, |

Love of peace, and lonely musing, | In hollow murmurs, died away. |

But, O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, | When Cheerfulness, | a nymph of healthiest hue, | Her bow across her shoulder flung, |

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, |

Blew an inspiring air, | that dale and thicket rung',| The hunter's call, to fawn and dryad known. The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd queen', Satyrs, and sylvan boys' were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear; |

And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear.]

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial - | 1

He, with viny crown advancing, |

First to the lively pipe', his hand address'd; |
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol |
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he lov'd the best. I
They would have thought, who heard the strain, |
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, |
Amidst the festal-sounding shades |

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, | Love fram'd with Mirth, a gay, fantastic round: | Loose were her tresses seen, her zone, unbound; | And he, amidst the frolic play, |

As if he would the charming air repay', | Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. |

SPEECH OF PATRICK HENRY.

Mr. President - It is natural to man, to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that syren till she transforms us into beasts. | Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great, and arduous struggle for lib'erty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not | the things which so nearly concern their temporal salva'tion? For my part, I whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth to know the worst', and to provide. for it.

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided ; | and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future, but by the past: | and, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry | for the last ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves, and the house? | Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? | Trust it not, sir- it will prove a snare to your feet: suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. |

Ask yourselves | how this gracious reception of our petition, comports with those warlike preparations | which cover our wa'ters, and darken our land. | Are fleets, and armies necessary to a work of love, and reconcilia'tion? | Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in | to win back our love'? | Let us not deceive ourselves, sir: these are the implements of war, and subjuga`tion the last arguments to which kings resort. |

I ask gentlemen, sir, | what means this martial array if its purpose be not to force us to submission? | Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? |

Has Great Britain" any enemy in this quarter of the world to call for all this accumulation of navies, and ar'mies? No, sir, she has none'. They are meant for us they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind, and rivet upon us | those chains which the British ministry have been so long for ging. | And what have we to oppose' to them? | Shall we try ar'gument? Sir, we have been trying that | for the last ten years. Have we any thing new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; | but it has been all in vain. |

Shall we resort to entreaty, and humble supplica'tion? What terms shall we find, which have not been already exhausted? | Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. | Sir, we have done every thing that could be done to avert the storm which is now coming on. | We have petitioned; | we have remon'strated; we have supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry, and parliament. Our petitions have. been slighted; our remonstrances | have produced additional violence, and in'sult; | our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned with contempt, from the foot of the throne.

In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace, and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free, if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending, | if 1 we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle | in which we have been so long engaged, 'and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon | until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained', [ 'we must fight! I repeat it, sir, we must fight! | An appeal to arms, 'and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us. I

a Brit'ân; not Brit'n.

b Egź-håst'ed; not ¿gż-żåst'èd.