Imatges de pàgina
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The congress of America hath ordered, in the fourteen confederate states, a mourning of two months for the death of Benjamin Franklin; and America is, at this 'moment, paying that tribute of veneration to one of the fathers of her constitution.

Were it not worthy of us, gentlemen, to join in the same religious act, to pay our share of that homage now rendered in sight of the universe, at once to the rights of man, and to the philosopher who most contributed to extend the conquests of liberty over the face of the whole earth?

Antiquity would have raised altars to that vast and mighty gentas, who, for the advantage of human kind, embracing earth and heaven in his ideas, could tame the rage of thunder and of despotism. France enlightened and free, owes at least some testimony of remembrance and regret to one of the greatest men who ever served he cause of philosophy and of liberty.

I move you to decree, that the national assembly shall wear mourning three days for the late Benjamin -Franklin.

XV. Cominius' Eulogium of Coriolanus.

1 SHALL lack voice: The deeds of Coriolanus should not be uttered feebly. It is held, that valour is the first of virtues, and most ennobles the possessor. If that be; the man I speak of, cannot, in the world, be singly counterpoised.

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At sixteen years, when Tarquin made ahead for Rome, The fought beyond the mark of others. Our dictator, (whom, with all praise, I point at,) saw him fight, when, with his Amazonian chin, he drove the bristled lips be"fore him he bestrid an o'erprest; Roman, and, in the consul's view, slew three opposers. Tarquin's self he met, and struck him on his knee. In that day's feats, when he might have played the woman in the scene, he acted man best in the field; and, for his meed, was browbound with the oak, His purpil-age man entered, thus ; the waxed, like a sea; and, in the brunt of seventeen battles since, has lurcht all swords of the garland. For this

last, before, and in Corïoli, let me say, I cannot speak him home. He stopt the fliers, and, by his rare example, made the coward turn terror into sport. As waves bcfore a vessel under sail, so men obeyed, and fell below his stern.-Alone he entered the mortal gate of the city,' which he marked with shunless destiny: aidless came off, and, with a sudden reinforcement, struck Corioli, like a planet.

Nor all is this: for, by and by, the din of war began to pierce his ready sense, when straight, his doubled spirit requickened what in nature was inanimate, and to the battle came he; where, until we called both field and city ours, he never stood to ease his breast with panting. Our spoils he spurned at, and looked upon things precious, as they had been the common muck of earth. He covets less than misery itself would give; rewards his deeds with doing them; and is content to spend his time, to end it.

XVI. Cicero and Demosthenes compared.

THESE two great princes of eloquence have been often compared together; but the judgment hesitates to which to give the preference. The archbishop of Cambray, however, seems to have stated their merits with great justice and perspicuity, in his reflections on rhetoric and poetry. The passage, translated, is as follows.

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"I do not hesitate to declare, that I think Demosthenes superior to Cicero. I am persuaded that no one can admire Cicero more than I do. He adorns whatever he attempts. He does honour to language. He disposes of words in a manner peculiar to himself. His style has great variety of character. Whenever he pleases, he is even concise and vehement; for instance, against Cata. line, against Verres, against Antony. But ornament is too visible in his writings. His art is wonderful, but it is perceived. When the orator is providing for the safety of the republic, he forgets not himself, nor permits others to forget him. Demosthenes seems to escape from him. self, and to see nothing but his country. He seeks not elegance of expression; unsought for he possesses it,

He is superior to admiration. He makes use of language as a modest man does of dress, only to cover him. He thunders, he lightens. He is a torrent which carries every thing before it. We cannot criticise, because we are not ourselves. His subject enchains our attention, and makes us forget his language. We lose him from our sight: Philip alone occupies our minds. I am delighted with both these orators; but I confess that I am less affected by the infinite art and magnificent eloquence of Cicero, than by the rapid simplicity of Demosthenes."

XVII. The Portraits of Mahomet and Jesus contrasted.

Go to your natural religion:-place before her Mahomet and his disciples, arrayed in armour and in blood, riding in triumph over the spoils of thousands and tens of thousands, who fell by his sword. Shew her the cities which he set in flames, the countries which he ravaged and destroyed, and the miserable distress of all the inhabitants of the earth. When she has viewed him in this scene, carry her into his retirements; shew her the prophet's chamber, his concubines and wives; let her see his adultery, and hear him alledge revelation and his di vine commission to justify his lust and oppression. When she is tired with this scene, then shew her the blessed Jesus, humble and meek, doing good to all the souls of men, patiently instructing both the ignorant and perverse. Let her see him in his most retired privacies; let her follow him to the mount, and hear his devotions and supplications to his god. Carry her to his table, to view his mean fare, and hear his heavenly discourse. Let her see him injured, but not provoked. Let her attend him to the tribunal, and consider the patience with which be endured the scoffs and reproaches of his enemies. Lead her to his cross, and let her view him in the agonies of death, and hear his last prayer for his persecufors; "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."-When natural religion has viewed both, ask, Which is the prophet of god?

XVIII. The picture of Rumour full of tongues.

OPEN your ears: for which of you will stop
The vent of hearing, when loud Rumour speaks?
I, from the orient to the drooping west,
Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold
The acts commenced on this ball of earth.
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride,
The which in every language I pronounce,
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports:
I speak of peace, while covert enmity,
Under the smile of safety, wounds the world.
And who but rumour, who but only I,
Make fearful musters and prepar'd defence,
While the big ear, swoll'n with some other griefs,
Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,
And no such matter. Rumour is a pipe
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures;
And of so easy and so plain a stop,

That the blunt monster, with uncounted heads,
The still-discordant, wav'ring multitude

Can play upon it. The posts come tiring on,
And not a man of them brings other news

Than they have learn'd of me. From Rumour's tongues They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.

XIX. The Excursions of the Imagination.

-THE high-born soul

Disdains to rest her heav'n-aspiring wing
Beneath its native quarry. Tir'd of earth,
And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft
Thro' fields of air; pursues the flying storin;
Rides on the volley'd lightning thro' the heavens:
Or, yok'd with whirlwinds, and the northern blast,
Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars
The blue profound; and hov'ring round the sun,
Beholds him pouring his redundant stream
Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway

Bend the reluctant planets to absolve
The fated rounds of time. Thence far effus'd,
She darts her swiftness up the long career
Of devious comets; thro' its burning signs
Exulting measures the perennial wheel
Of nature, and looks back on all the stars,
Whose blended light, as with a milky zone,
Invests the orient. Now amaz'd she views
Th' empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold,
Beyond this concave heav'n, their calm abode;
And fields of radiance, whose unfading light
Has travell'd the profound six thousand years,
Not yet arrives in sight of mortal things.
Ev'n on the barriers of the world untir'd
She medidates th' eternal gulph below;
Till, half-recoiling, down the headlong steep
She plunges; soon o'erwhelm'd and swallow'd up
In that immense of being. There her hopes
Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth
Of mortal man, the sov'reign maker said,
That not in humble nor in brief delight,
Not in the fading echoes of renown,

Power's purple robes, nor pleasure's flow'ry lap,
The soul should find enjoyment; but from these
Turning disdainful to an equal good,

Thro' all th' ascent of things enlarge her view,
Till ev'ry bound at length should disappear,

And infinite perfection close the scene.

XX. Cæsar and a madman compared.

WITHIN this lonely lodge in solemn port,
An awful monarch keeps his shiv'ring court,
And far and wide as boundless thought can stray,
Extends a vast imaginary sway.

Utopian princes bow before his throne,
Lands unexisting his dominion own,
And airy realms, and regions in the moon.
The pride of dignity, the pomp of state,
The darling glories of the envied great,

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