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POETRY.
LAMENT OF PERICLES.
Pericles, who felt proud to boast ot having
lost his nearest relations without betray*
ing any outward signs of grief, yielded at
length to its impulse, when custom re
quired him to crown his dead son (the
last of his race) with a wreath of flowers.
Mv son, my son, and must I twine
The (lowers around thy brow?
Oh fate, thou dost a task assign,
Of mournful import now.
He, who was proud a tearless eye
in every ill to keep,
Had rarely given to grief a sigh—
Is doomed at length to weep.
I’ve seen the friends of early years,
Through fell disease grow pale,
I’ ve marked around mo other’s tears
Tell death’s unwelcome tale;
These have I steel’d my warrior heart
To meet unbent, unbroke,
And deemed it marked a Grecian’s part,
To bear affliction’s yoke.
Alas! my son, of by-gone bliss
Each flower tells far too much;
That once allured thy inlant kiss,
And this thy fairy touch;
Ah, then I hoped my hoy would weai c
The funeral wreath for me,
And little deemed a day like this
I e’er should live to see.
Oh, the last of a loved race,
Which wake a father’s fears,
In giving thee this last embrace,
I feel the grief of years;
Ah, where is now (he boasted pride
My heaat was wont to shine ?
It fled, when thou my last hope died,
And shall no more be mine.
From the Boston Recorder.
POLLOK’S COURSE OF TIME.
It is happy for the Reviewer that
when criticism, as in the present in
stance, is disarmed by affecting cir
cumstances, the excellencies ol the
book under consideration are so strik
ing as not to need the contrast of its
blemishes. The author of the Course
of Time is dead—and were the monu
ment which he has left behind him less
likely to perpetuate his name as a po
et and a Christian, we could not find
it in our hearts to speak harshly of
' one who has died so early, and made,
in this day of vain literature, an effort
so decided to purify the perverted
“ wells of poetry.”
The Course of Time is a “Poem of
Ten Books.” It opens with an invoca
tion to the “Eternal Spirit,” disavow
ing all desiic for ornament of style,
and asking only for power “to utter
as it is the essential truth.” It then
takes fur its time a period subsequent
to the judgment, and represents two
celestial beings walking “on the hills
*f immortality,” when a stranger ar
rives in heaven. After greetings have
been exchanged, he accounts for the
agitation of his manner by a descrip
tion of his journey in which he had
passed hell. A description of the
“worm that never dies,” terribly
graphic, and some other of the phases
of misery conclude his narration.—
He then asks for an explanation, and
is referred by them to an “ancient
hard of earth,” who was better com
petent to inform him.
The description of their flight over
heaven in seacli of him is very beauti
ful :
So saying, they linked hand in band,
spread out
Their golden winby living breezes fan*
ned,
And over heaven’s broad champaign sailed
serene.
O’er hill and valley, clothed with verdure
green
That never fades; and tree, and herb, ami
flower,
That never fades; and many a river, rich
With nectar, winding pleasantly, they
passed;
Anil mansion of celestial mould, and work
Divine.. And oft delicious music, sung
B.v saint and angel bands that walked the
vales,
Or mountain tops, and harped upon their
harps,
Their car inclined, and held by sweet, con
straint
Their wing;
The story is now transferred with a
fine poetical invention to the “ancient
hard,” who goes on with the main sub
ject of the book—the Course of Time.
Among the passions which prevailed
after the fall, he dwells much upon
fame, and this gives the author an op
portunity to speak of hiraseli, which
he does in a way at once touching and
modest.
The following passage in the descrip
tion of a Christian mother’s death, we
think one of the mostexquisitely beau
tiful we have ever seen:
She made a sign
To bring her babe—’twa« brought, and by
her placed.
She looked upon its face, that neither smiled
Nor wept, nor kneiv who gazed upon’t,
and laid
Her hand upon its little breast, and sought
For it, with look that seemed to penetrate
The heavens—unutterable blessings—such
As God to clyinpyiarents only granted,
For infants left behind them in the world.
“God keep my child,” we heard her say,
anil heard
No more: the Angel of the Covenant
Was come, and faithful to his promise stood
Prepared to walk with her through death’s
dark vale.
And now her eyes grew bright, and bright
er still,
Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused
With many tears, and closed without a
cloud.
They set as sets the morning star, Which
goes
Not down behind the darkened west, nor
hides
Obscured among the tempests of tlic ■<ky,
But melts away into the light of heaven.
There is a fine description o’ By
ron—too long for insertion, and an a-
postrophe to the sea,
“Th’ eternal bass
Of nature’s anthem,” which is full of sub
limity.
We close our extracts with the fol
lowing original extract from the le-
scription of the resurrection:
Now starting up among the living chant
ed,
Appeared innumerous the risen dead.
Each particle of dust was claimed: the turf,
For ages trod beneath the careless foot
Of men, rose organized in human form;
The monumental stones were rolled away;
The doors of death were opened; and in
dark
And loathsome vault, and silent charnel
house,
Moving were heard the mouldered bonne
that sought
Their proper place. Instinctive every soul
Flew to its clayey part: from grass-grown
mould,
The nameless spirit took its ashes up,
Reanimate: and merging from beneath
The flattered marble, undistinguished rose
The great—nor heeded once the lavish
rhyme,
And costly pomp of sculptured garnish vain.
The Memphian mummy, that from age to
age
Descending, bought and sold a thousand
times,
In hall of curious antiquary, stowed,
Wrapt in mysterious weeds, the wondrous
theme *
Of many an erring tale, shook off its rags;
And the brown son of Egypt stood beside
The European, his last purchaser.
In vale remote the hermit rose, surprised
At crowds that rose around him, where lrc
thought
His slumbers had been single: and the bard,
Who fondly covenanted with his friend
To lay his bones beneath the sighing bough
Of some old lonely tree, rising was pressed
By multitudes, that claimed their proper
dust
From the same spot; and he, that richly
hearsed,
With gloomy garniture of purchased wo,
Embalmed in princely sepulchre was laid,
Apart from vulgar men, built nicely round
And round by the proud heir who blushed
to think
His father’s lordly clay should ever mix
With peasant dust—saw by his side awake
The clown, that long had slumbered in his
arms.
As tve said before we have no dis
position to criticise this book. The
occasional lameness of a line, the un
musical inversion of the style, except
where his ardor carries him above it,
and one or two instance of bad taste
and familiarity in figures, are defects
that might be dwelt upon; hut it would
he no satisfaction to us, and a profana
tion certainly, to the feelings of every
reader.
It is written in a spirit of the most
pure and fervent piety, and must and
dues leave a salutary impression.—
We cannot, indeed, go so far as some
who prefer it to Paradise Lost; but
we do think that with the exception of
one or two of the ‘•‘groat lights of po
etry,” it is the finest specimen of con
temporary poetical genius.
From the American Traveller.
Till'. VICTIM OT INNOCENT AMUSEMENT
loveliness did not need the foreign aid
of ornament: she was always dressed.
Still she never appeared to be
proud of herself, though her friends
were proud of her. Nor did she ever
seem elated with the consciousness of
her own powers, or to indulge the
thought that she imparted more pleas
ure than she received. But with all
her beauty, and her accomplishments,
she was comparatively ignorant of the
first knowledge and destitute of the
first principles—the knowledge of
God, and the principles of religion.
Perhaps this deficiency, however,
may he partly attributed to the influ
ence of early education and concurring
circumstances. Her father was an
Englishman and a protestant. But he
had always had a predilection for re
publican principles, and had taken a
deep interest in the American cause.
He left his native country soon after
he was married, from dislike to the
government, and embarked for the
New World. Immediately after his
arrival in this country, he set up as a
merchant in the city New' York.—
Here by taking advantage of the fluc
tuations of the market, he in a few
years acquired wealth enough to ena
ble him to erect a spacious and su
perb mansion, and to live in a style a-
greeable to his taste. He was a man
of spirit and enterprizc, and sustained
i high reputable character as a mem
ber of society. He pretended to be
a great promoter of learning and po
lite literature, and he was passionately
load of return^) ol which he sometimes
proudly called “innocent amuse
ments.” Nothing delighted him more
than the exhibitions of the theatre,
the dances of the hall room, and par
ties of parade and pleasure. Of course
he and his family were frequent at
tendants on these and scenes of a like
nature. He was, in short, a man of
money, and a man of pleasure. “His
treasure was on the earth.” Not that
he was free from all pretensions to
piety. Far from it. He held a high
rank among a class of religionists, who
talk much about charity and sincerity.
He was perfectly willing that every
one should enjoy his favorite “ faith,”
as well as his favorite pleasures.—
And although he hated and abhorred
all the advocates of “the restrictive
and exclusive systems,” in matters of
politics and religion, yet he could not
help loving and admiring that “amia
hie” sort of preachers who follow, in
stead of leading the people. He was
the advocate for ‘boundless benevo-
Elizabeth ITazlewood was the
daughter of Charles Iiazlewood Esq.
formerly a weailliy merchant of (he
city of New York. She was brought
up in the lap of luxury, and in the in
dulgence of every harmless pleasure.
Nature conferred upon her beauty,
and education, accomplishments of
mind. Her disposition and manners
were no less lovely and pleasing than
the external beauty and elegance of
her person. There was a sweetness
in her conversation and a gentleness in
her address, which betrayed at once
the fine feelings of her heart. She
was free from all affectation, and ap
parently from all vanity. Though
passionately fond of dress, and appear
ance, she spent but comparatively lit
tle time at the toilet, or in the con
templation of her own beautiful image,
as it appeared in the large parlour
mirror. Here was one of those “fine
forms,” upon which almost any gar
ment sits gracefully. Jler native
and—‘inno-
lence,’ ‘infinite mercy
cent amusements,’
Of course, his daughter of whom
we have been speaking, would he
likely to adopt the same notions with
her father, and to follow the dictates
of her feelings, whether they led her
to the theatre or the ball room. This
she did. Indeed, from the time she
was capable of enjoying the pleasures
of refined society, her life had been
nothing hut a continued round of at
tendance on balls, plays and levees
She was always either going abroad,
or expecting company at home. This
manner of life exactly suited the natu
ral temperament of her mind, and she
derangement of her mind, which 'likejf'
a bow always bent, appeared to have
lost all its youthful elasticity, and to
act only in obedience to the strong im
pulse of passion.
Disappointment in an affair of love,
was to her who had indulged extrava
gant hopes with regard to the realities
of life, the last of evils. When this
came, (and it did come) she gave
herself up to its melancholy influ
ence—
“Anil like a worm in the byd,
It sweetly fed upon her damask cheek.”
After two years of unhappy lan-
guisliment from the time she began
to decline, much of which she spent
in regret of the past, and in silent
grief, sliQ died; the evident and la-
mnntpfl vietirn of “intlOCent aixlUSC-
inented victim
ments
pursued it with as much satisfaction
and apparently as thoughtless and un
conscious of danger, as the young fawn
roams her native forests, or spoils in
the meadow.
Thus passed away nineteen years
of the short period of her existence
here. During this time, she had
thought but little of divine truth, and
of course felt nothing of its heavenly
influence. She was now beyond all
hope of recovery a child of pleasure.
The love of it had fastened on her
heart. Besides, from the loo frequent
perusal of those fashionable books,
which give such a true representation
of unreal life, her mind had become
tilled with romantic notions, and her
lively imagination dressed every ob
ject and scene around her, with beau
ties other than their own. She drew
a charm around every thing. Things
that had no beauty in the eyes of oth-
thers, had much in her3. She could
admire any thing. Nor was she whol
ly ignorant of that self-deceiving art
of transformation which was so char
acteristic of the [Knight of La Man
cha.
But in justice to one whose charac
ter was not so much of her own form
ing as the result of circumstances, I
will as much as possible, avoid specifi
cation. I will conclude with a brief
sketch of her remaining life, which is
short and melancholy.
Deprivation of health, occasioned
by luxury of living and irregularity of
repose, was followed by the partial
Potatoes have had a wonderful ^
feet on the-animal as soon as the bow. I
els are well cleansed, the importancef
of which, any persoiWvill be convinc-
ed of, wdio observes the discharge
from the animal. In some obstinate I
cases 1 have given daily, from a half to I
one ounce of nitre sprinkled on the
potatoes. It is important at the first
bleeding, to take as much blood as the
From the. American Farmer.
On the disease commonly called the
HOLLOW HORN.
Mr. Skinner—There is, perhaps,
no diesase in this climate from which
our neat catle have suffered so much
as that commonly called the Hollow
Horn; and unfortunately, few persons
have thought it necessary to give any
attention to it or its cure, for we find
hut little said in any agricultural work
relative to its treatment.
The name appears to me to be
badly applied, as the horn alone is not
the seat of the disease; it pervades
the whole system—and cattle without
horns are quite as subject to it, as
those with them—having often seen
those without horns have it.
The hollowness of the horn, pro
ceeds from the violence of the fever
throughout the system. I have known
cattle feeding in stalls to be attacked
with it, as well as those in poor con
dition; and no doubt those in poor
plight are more liable to its attack,
their system not being in a state to
resist any disease; it occurs too at all
seasons of the year, hut more parti
cularly in the spring.
The animal attacked with it looks
rough, starts much in its coat, and
falls off very fast in flesh, its food hav
ing hut little effect in nourishing it.
The eye looks very hollow and dead,
and runs with a yellow matter which
collects in the corners, and around
them. Many persons rely upon the
feel of the horn, as the best indica
tive of disease, hut this, I think very
uncertain; in some cases it is at the
foot, cold to the feci, while in others
very hot. A very small gimhlet will,
however, remove all doubts, and the
mark on the horn not visible after a
few days. If the disease exists, the
horn will he found without pith, and
little or no blood will follow the bor
ing, whereas if the disease does not
exist, you will find blood, immediate
ly upon entering the horn. The gim-
blet used for boring, should he well
washed and greased after using; for
if it is not and should be used to try
the horn of an animal not actually af
fected with the disease, it will most
generally give it to them. It is a
disease that is highly inflammatory
and infections; and the animal having
it, ought to he removed from the herd
until well. The following mode of
treatment, I have found very success
ful, and the beast soon restored to
a thriving state. As soon as I discov
er an animal affected .with the hollow
horn, I bleed it from the neck (in the
same vein in which a horse is bled)
from two to six or seven quarts, ac
cording to its age, size, and condition,
and give it from three quarters to one
pound and a half of glauher salts; with
a middle sized gimhlet open the horns
through and through, making the holes
so that they may he perpendicular in
the usual position the animal carries its
head, so that the pus formed may
have a free discharge as soon as the
horns ore opened; put through the
hole into each about a table spoonful
of strong vinegar, in which some salt
and Black pepper has been put. The
following, day the horns must be again
opened and cleaned from the pus
which generally is now formed, and
about half a lea spoonful of spirits tur
pentine, put in each horn T and a little
on the poll of the animal daily during
the continuance of the disease. One
bleeding is generally sufficient, but
I have known cases in which it was
necessary to repeat it three times as
also the salts.
The food during the continuance of
the disease is important—corn in eve
ry shape is had—potatoes are of great
use, (with a small quantity of brew
er’s grains, if to be had) and the ani
mal ought to have from one to one and
a half peck daily, with hay in the
winter, and grass in the summer.
animal,will bear, a3 the fever is more
easily checked by one large bleeding,
than two small ones, and the animal
better able to hear it.
In many cases the -bleeding anil
salts having been sulficfcnt, without
opening the horns; and when taken in
the early stage will generally be found
to answer, hut the boring certainly
assists in forming anew the- internal
part of the horn, and which a$ soon
as it commences forming, the holes in
the limns should be allowed to close.
An animal having the hollow horn
should be sheltered from the iiiclem-
ency of the weather, during its con
tinuance. No age appears exempt
from its attack; having seen it in a
yearling as well as subsequent ages, j
I am induced to offer this mode of.
treatment to your subscribers, having (
never in any instance failed of restor- i
ing the animal; whereas before this
mode of treatment was adopted I an- 1
nually lost several. The fleam for
bleeding cattle should be rather deep
er than used for a horse, the vein in
the neck, not lying so near the sur
face, the orifice is closed with a pin,
in the same way as in bleeding a
horse.
file
yc;
WOMAN,
Never shrink from a woman of
strong sense. If she becomes attach
ed to you, it will he from seeing and
valuing similar qualities in yourself. 1
You may trust her, for she knows the
value of your confidence; you may
consult her, for she is able to advise; |
and docs so at once vvitli the firmness
of reason, and the consideration of af
fection. Her love will'he lasting, for
it will not have been lightly won; it
will he strong and ardent, for weak
minds are not capable of the loftier
grades of the passion. If you- prefer
attaching to yourself a woman of fee
ble understanding, it must be either
from fearing to encounter a superior
person, or from the poor vanity of
preferring that admiration which
springs from ignorance, to that 1 which
arises from appreciation.
A woman whohas the beauty of fe
minine delicay & grace, who has the
strong sense of a man, yet softened
and refined by the influence of woman
ly feeling—whose passions are strong,
hut chastened and directed by delica
cy and principle—whose mind is bril
liant, alike from its natural emanations
and its stores of. acquirement—whose
manners have been formed by the im
perceptible influence of good society,
in its broad sense, yet are totally free
from the consciousness and affecta
tion oL-any clique, though it he the
highest—who, though she shines in
and enjoys the world, finds her heart’s
happiness at home—is not this the no
blest and the sweetest\of the crea
tures formed by God?
The present style of shirt collars
requires them to be about three inch
es broad above the cravat, and iff
and sharp as a butcher knife.—
A rough wag of a fellow from the blue
ridge lately met a dandy with his
head esconcded within one of these
collars, in the streets of Baltimore—
and struck with his strange appear
ance, he accosted him—“Gouge me,
my hero, if I don’t believe you’ve got
your shirt on wrong end upwards..”
The followingcolloq*iy actually took
place between two Senators during
the late discussion on the Tariff Bill,
on a motion to reduce the duty on mo
lasses:—
Senator Benton—Whiskey is the
healthiest liquor that is taken, as men are
known to have been drunk upon it forty
or fi fty years, while rim finished its vic
tims in eight or ten.
Senator Chandler—I understand the
gentleman from Missouri that a man
may be drunk on whiskey for forty
years. This is a reason why I shall
vote against the duty as I am in favor
of that liquor which should soonest
despatch the drunkard.
An Alligator, measuring eleven feet
in length, was caught at Little Rock,
on the Arkansas, the 13th ult. but not
before nine rifle balls had been fired
into his eyes and other parts of hi*
head, was he overpowered.
