That which in mean men we entitle patience,
Is pale, cold cowardice in noble breasts.
So tedious is this day,
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child, that hath new robes,
And may not wear them.
Patience! preach it to the winds;
To roaring seas, or raging fires! The knaves
That teach it, laugh at you when you believe them. OTWAY'S Orphan.
O ye cold-hearted, frozen formalists!
On such a theme 't is impious to be calm;
Passion is reason, transport, temper, here.
Patience and resignation are the pillars
Of human peace on earth.
But patience is the virtue of an ass,
That trots beneath his burden, and is quiet.
Oh how impatience gains upon the soul,
When the long-promis'd hour of joy draws near!
How slow the tardy moments seem to roll!
What spectres rise of inconsistent fear!
A prison! heavens,-I loathe the hated name,
Famine's metropolis-the sink of shame-
A nauseous sepulchre, whose craving womb
Hourly inters poor mortals in its tomb!
IMPRISONMENT - PRISON, &c.
A prison is in all things like a grave,
Where we no better privileges have
Than dead men; nor so good.
They say this is the dwelling of distress,
The very mansion-house of misery ;-
To me, alas! it seems but just the same
With that more spacious jail—the busy world.
Look on hin-through his dungeon-grate,
Feebly and cold, the morning light
Comes stealing round him, dim and late,
As if it loath'd the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed,
His hand upholds his drooping head-
His bloodless cheek is seam'd and hard,
Unshorn his grey, neglected beard,
And o'er his bony fingers flow
His long, dishevell❜d locks of snow.
What has the grey-hair'd prisoner done?
Has murder stain'd his hands with gore?
Not so; his crime's a fouler one-
God made the old man poor!
For this he shares a felon's cell,
That fittest earthly type of hell!
High walls and huge the body may confine,
And iron gates obstruct the prisoner's gaze,
And massive bolts may baffle his design,
And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways:
Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control!
No chains can bind it, and no cells enclose;
Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole,
And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes!
Conceive a crowd of wretched men,
Confin'd, like beasts, in such a den !-
Through their barr'd windows they can see
Birds, beasts, and men, all blithe and free:
They view the azure sky serene,
They gaze on the surrounding scene,
And hope-but hope too late, alas !—
That they from "durance vile "
To the free atmosphere of life,
Its cares and struggles, toil and strife.
Yet prisons-though it is too true
They're evils-still are blessings too;
For, without them, this world would be
One scene of crime and anarchy.
He that has but impudence,
To all things has a fair pretence;
And, put among his wants but shame,
To all the world may lay his claim.
Immodest words admit of no defence,
For want of decency is want of sense.
To glory soine advance a lying claim,
Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame ;
Their front supplies what their ambition lacks :
They know a thousand lords, behind their backs.
With that dull, rooted, callous impudence,
Which, dead to shame, and every nicer sense,
Ne'er blush'd; unless, in spreading vice's snares,
He blunder'd on some virtue unawares.
INCREDULITY - INDIAN, &c.
INCREDULITY. (See CREDULITY.)
poor Indian-whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topp'd hills, an humbler heaven.
Where beasts with man divided empire claim.
Is not the red man's wigwam home
As dear to him as costly dome?
Is not his lov'd one's smile as bright
As the proud white man's worshipp'd light?
MRS. M. ST. LEON LOUD.
True, they have vices-such are nature's growth,
But only the barbarian's—we have both.
Shall not one line lament the lion race,
For us struck out from sweet creation's face?
Freedom-the self-same freedom we adore,
Bade them defend their violated shore.
He saw-and, maddening at the sight,
Gave his bold bosom to the fight;
To tiger rage his soul was driven;
Mercy was neither sought nor given ;-
The pale man from his land must fly;
He would be free-or he would die.
But the doom'd Indian leaves behind no trace
To save his own, or serve another's race;
With his frail breath his power has pass'd away,
His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay.
CHARLES SPRAGUE
Alas, for them! their day is o'er,
Their fires are out from shore to shore;
No more for them the wild deer bounds-
The plough is on their hunting grounds.
The pale man's axe rings thro' their woods,
The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods;
Their pleasant springs are dry;
Their children-look, by power oppress'd,
Beyond the mountains of the West-
Their children go-to die!
I have not from your eyes that gentleness
And show of love, as I was wont to have.
More deadly to the sight than is to me
The cool ingenious eye of frozen kindness.
Let me this fondness from my bosom tear;
Let me forget that e'er I thought her fair:
Come, cool Indifference, and heal my breast;
Wearied, at length, I seek thy downy rest. . .
Not all her arts my steady soul shall move,
And, she shall find, indifference conquers love.
'The one deep cloud, that darkens every sky, Is chang'd affection's cold, averted eye.
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