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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.