Oh say, what sums that gen'rous hand supply?
What mines to swell that boundless charity?
Of debts, and taxes, wife, and children clear,
This man possess'd five hundred pounds a year.
Blush, grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your

blaze!

Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays.

And what! no monument, inscription, stone?
His race, his form, his name almost unknown!
Who builds a church to-god, and not to fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name.
Go search it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor, makes all the history;
Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between ;
Prov'd by the ends of being to have been. -

IV. Eulogium of the Village Preacher.

NEAR Yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was, to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
For other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
Ile chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain;
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast:
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won
Pleas'd with his guest, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave e'er charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all,
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff, remain❜d to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran;
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile;
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,

Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv❜n,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on his head.

V. M. Antony's Oration over the Corse of Cæsar.

FRIENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!--I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him,

The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Cæsar.The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cæsar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest-
(For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all-all honourable men ;)
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend; faithful and just to me
But Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Casar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cry'd, Cæsar hath wept :-
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:-
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious:
And Brutus is an honourable man.

You all did see, that, on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?-
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;

And sure, he is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke; But here I am to speak what I do know,

You all did love him once--not without cause; What cause with-holds you then to mourn for him? O judgment thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason.

Bear with me:

My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause 'till it come back to me.-
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.-
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on;

'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent;

That day he overcame the Nervii.

Look! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through;-

See, what a rent the envious Casca made:

Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd:
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow'd it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no:~
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:-
Judge, O you gods! how dearly Cæsar lov'd him!

This was the most unkindly cut of all: For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab, lagratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,

Quite vanquish'd him. Then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face,

Even at the base of Pompey's statue,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.

Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!-
Then, I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.

O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here!— .
Here is himself-marr'd, as you see, with traitors.-
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.

They, that have done this deed, are honourable!
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it :-they are wise, and honourable !
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:.

I am no orator, as Brutus is,

But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man,
That loves his friend ;-and that they know full well
Who gave me public leave to speak of him.

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood: I only speak right on;
I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Shew you sweet Cæsar's wounds, (poor, poor dumb
mouths!)

And bid them speak for me: But were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and 'mutiny.

VI. The Eulogium of the perfect Speaker.

IMAGINE to yourselves a Demosthenes addressing the most illustrious assembly in the world, upon a point whereon the fate of the most illustrious of nations de pended. How awful such a meeting! How vast the subject!-Is man possessed of talents adequate to the great occasion?, Adequate-yes, superior. By the power of his eloquence, the augustness of the assembly.

is lost in the dignity of the subject, for a while, superseded, by the admiration of his talents.With what strength of argument, with what powers of the fancy, with what emotions of the heart, does he assault and subjugate the whole man, and at once captivate his reason, his imagination, and his passions!To effect this must be the utmost effort of the most improved state of human nature. Not a faculty that he possesses, is here unemployed; not a faculty that he possesses, but is here exerted to its highest pitch. All his internal powers are at work; all his external, testify their energies. Within, the memory, the fancy, the judgment, the passions, all are busy; without, every muscle, every nerve, is exerted; not a feature, not a limb, but speaks. The organs of the body, attuned to the exertions of the mind, through the kindred organs of the hearers, instantaneously, and as it were with an electrical spirit, vibrate those energies from soul to soul. Notwithstanding the diversity of minds in such a multitude, by the lightning of eloquence, they are melted into one mass the whole assembly, act tuated in one and the same way, become, as it were, but one man, and have but one voice.-The universal cry is—Let us march against Philip-let us fight for our liberties let us conqueror die!

VII. Eulogium of Antoinette, the late Queen of France.

Ir is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she had just began to move in,-glittering like the morning-star; full of life, and splendor, and joy.

Oh! what a revolution!-and what a heart must I have, to contemplate, without emotion, that elevation. and that fall!

Little did I dream that, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should-over be obliged to carry the sharp anti