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BY I*, c* PENDLETON. VOL. I. THE S0 HT *ff IS 5? IP ®S 2? Is published in the city of Macon c-very Saturday Morning* at two dollars advance, three dollars at the end of the year— one dollar and fifty cents fir six months; and mailed to country subscribers b\ the earliest mails, enveloped by good strong wrappers, with legible directions. SKT No subscription receivec for a less period than six months—and no paper discon tinued, until all arrears are paid. Advertisement* will be inserted at the usual rates of advertising, with a reasonable deduction to yearly ad vertisers. Religions, Msrriage and Obituary Notices inserted free of charge. JCr Any person forwarding a ten dollar bill, (post paid,) shall receive six copies, for one year, to be sent to different persons, as directed. JKT Letters, on business, either to the Publisher or Editor, must come post paid to insure attention. POETRY. The following lines are given as a specimen of one of Thomas Pringle’s poems entitled “ Afar in the desert.” The reviewer of these poems in the London Monthly Review says, that “Coleridge so intently admired this piece as to do little else for some days but to read and recite it.” It is from a volume of Prin gle’s Poems recently published in London. “ Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: When the sorrows of life the soul o’ercast, And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From th« fond recollections of former years, And shadows of things that have long since fled. Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead; Bright visions of glory—that vanished too soon ; Da; - Ireams —that departed ere manhood’s noon; Attachments—by fate or by falsehood rest! Companions of early days—lost or left; And my Native Land—whose magical name Thrills to the heart like electric flame; The home of my childhood, the haunts of my prime, All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time j When the feelings were young and the world was new 4 Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; All—all now forsaken—forgotten—foregone ! And 1 a lone exile remembered of none— I My high aims abandoned—my good acts undone — A weary of all that is under the sun— ! With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the Desert afar from man ! Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side; W hen the wild turmoil of wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption and strife — The proud man’s frown, and the base man’s sea The scorner’s laugh, and the sufferer’s tear — And malice, and meanness, and falsehood and folly, Dispose me to musing, and dark melancholly; ' v '‘ lcn my bosom is full and my thoughts are high, And my soul is sick with the bondman’s sigh— Da! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, Afar in the Desert alone to ride! 1 here is rapture to vault on the champing steed, And to hound away with eagle’s speed, With the death-fraught firelock in my hand — Hie only law of the Desert Land ! Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: Anav away in the Wilderness vas f , W here the White Man’s foot hath never passed, And the quivered Coranda or Bechuan Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan; A region of emptiness, howling and drear, hirl l Man hath abandoned from famine and fear, irh the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, lf h tlie twilight hat from the yawning stone; ere grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, Save poisonous thorns that peirce the foot; And the bitter melon, for food and drink, ’’thepilgrim’s fare by the salt-lake’s brink; region of drought, where no river glides, or rippling brook with osicred si 'es; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, or tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, Appears, to refresh the aching eye; ut the barren earh, and the burning skv, Aid the blank horizon, round and round, spread—void of living sight or sound. MACON, (Ga.) SATURDAY MORNING, JUNE 23, 1838. Ynd here, while the night-winds round me sigh, Ynd the stars burn bright in the midnight sky. As I sit apart by die desert stone, Like Elijah atlloreb’s cave alone, A still small voice” comes through the wild, Like a father consoling his freiful child,) Which banishes bitterness, wrath and fear, Saying— Man is distant, but God is near 1” The following is extracted from a beautiful Poem, recently published in the United States Magazine: “ Flag of my count? y ! in thy folds Are wrapped the treasures of the heart; Where’er that waving sheet is fanned, By breezes of the sea or land, It bids the life-blood start. It is not that among those stars The fiery crest of Mars shines out t It is not that on battle-plain, ’Midst hopes of harnessed warriors slain, It flaps triumphant o'er the rout. Short-lived the joy that conquest yields ; Flushed victory is bathed in tears ; The burden of that bloody fame, Which shouting thousands loud proclaim, Sounds sad to widow’d ears. Thou hast a deeper, stronger hold, Flag of my country ! on the heart. Than when o’er mustered hosts unfurled, Thou art a signal to the world, At which the nations start. Thou art a symbol of the power, Whose sheltering wings our homes surround; Guarded by thee was childhood’s morn, And where thy cheering folds are borne, Order and peace are found. Flag of my favored country, hail! Blessings abound where thou dost float: Best robe for living freedom’s form, ' Fit pall to spread upon the tomb, Should Heaven to death devote. Wave o’er us in glory still, And be our guardian as now, Each wind of Heaven shall kiss thy cheeks: And withered be the arm that seeks, To bring that banner low!” SUNDAY READING. BEAUTIES OF CREATION. It is a bountiful creation-—and bounty de mands acknowledgement; but its veiy si lence, as to all demands upon our gratitude, seems to me more affecting than any articu late voice of exhonoration. If “ cloven tongues of fire” sat upon busli and forest bough ; if audible voices were borne on every breeze, saying, “G ve thanks! give thanks!” how ever startling at first, it would not be so power ful, it would not lx) so eloquent, as the deep and unobtrusive silence of nature. The revolv ing seasons encircle us with their blessings; the fruits of the earth successively and silently spring from its bosom, and as silently moulder back again to prepare for new supplies ; day and night return ; the “soft and stealing hours rollon ;” mighty changes and revolutions are passing in the abjsses of the earth and the throned heights of the firmament; mighty worlds and systems are borne with speed, al most like that of light, through the infinitude of space ; but all is order, harmony, and si lence. What histories could they relate of in finite goodness, but they proclaim it not! What calls to grateful devotion are there in earth and heaven, but they speak it not!—No messenger stands upon the watch towers of creation, on hill or mountain, saying, like the Moslem priest from the minarets of their tem ples, “To prayer! to prayer!” lam some times tempted to wish there were, or to wonder there are not. But so it is ; there is no audi ble voice nor speech. And for this cause, and for other causes, how many of heaven’s bles sings escape your notice. In how many ways ; s the band of hoaven stretched out to us, and vet unseen : in how man places does it secretly leposite its benefactions! It is as if a friend lad come with soft and gentle step to the dwel ing of our want, or to the abode of our sick ness, and laid down his gift, and silently turn ed away. And during half of our lives the night draws her veil of darkness over the mys tcrious path of Heaven’s care; and yet those paths are filled with ministering angels that wait about our defenceless pillow, and keep :heir watch by the couch of our repose. Yes. in night and darkness, and untrodden soli udes, what histories of God’s mercy are read ! But they are not written in human language ; they are not proclaimed by mortal tongue. Fhe dews of heavenly beneticience silently de scend ; the ocean rolls in its dark caverns ; the recesses of the wilderness are thronged with insects, and beasts, and birds, that utter no sound in the ear of man. Dewey. THE SABBATH. Accustomed as we are to view the Sabbath as a religious institution, we forget to reflect on ts importance in a mo al and civil point of view. True, in this respect it is not of that great interest to man which the welfare of his immortal spirit requires, but independent of its religious influence, there is perhaps no one thing which contributes more to elevate the character of man, to eradicate the ruthlessness of his savage nature, to make him a moral, so cial and upright being, and to establish the great principles of civil liberty, than the institu tion of the Sabbath. At one and the same time, all nature as it were, is hushed to repose ; man ceases from his accustomed avocations and retires to scenes more congenial to thought and reflection—and the beasts of the field re leased from their labors enjoy the like repose. After six days labor, “tired nature” seeks for a “ restorerand after a day of rest, men seek their several employments, with renova ted vigor of both body and mind. Suppose there was no Sabbath, no weekly assemblings of the people, man would plod on his course of time in one dull round of forgetfulness, as na ture left him at his birth so at his death she would find him, the child of ignorance ; unu sed to the social pleasures of life and unaccus tomed to the duties which civilization impose, his life would be but the Anchorite’s dream— his mind but " One dark waste Where fiends and tempest’s howl.” Science would lose her votaries, and the ac ademic groves would be forsaken, and man in every station in society would feel its baneful effects. Covington Free Press. SUNSET. How beautiful is sunset! and wfyo does not love this hour, when the orb of day is sinking in the west beneath a cloudless sky ; when na ture and all animated creation sleep in silence, and free from the constraints of man and the pursuits of life, we can retire to some jilace of quietness and solitude, and enjoy a scene that elevates our thoughts, and inspires us with feelings of love and gratitude to the God of Heaven for the bounties of his hands and the blessings of his providence to us his degener ate children! It is an hour solemn and impressive, taken from the rapid whirl of time, and devoted to the immortal interests of the soul—an hour distinct and alone from the turmoil and strife of life, in which we can in silent aspirations worship our Maker and dwell with rupture on the works of his fingers. Man is a being who, generally speaking, is obliged to pursue some calling or avocation in life, for the purpose of maintaining not only himself, but frcpuently to support those who have a claim upon him from the natural ties and relationships of life: those pursuits du ring the day naturally fill his mind, to the ex clusion of matters of more serious and holy import; but when evening casts its shadows around, and the dews of Heaven are falling upon the grateful earth, and all nature seems hushed to repose, the scene operates on his mind in a different manner; he then feels lift ed above the cares of life, and voluntarily pours out his soul in silent prayer to the God af Abraham, Isaac, und Jacob, for the inesti mable privileges he then enjoys. Moreover, sunset is an emblem of the close of our pil grimage on earth, when life’s sun itself shall ■;et in the grave, and we be gathered to our fa thers ; when the world and all its parade and !folly shall fade before our dosing eyes, and] when death shall for ever seal us happy or mis- 1 'erab'.c. C. R. lIANLEITER, PRINTER. Such are the startling truths suggested to tlui mind at the going down of the great luminary of day, and as such we should give them wel come, not only for the important lessons they teach, hut for the glory of God and the im provement and advancement of religion in our souls. Life is, at 1 est, but delusive and uncer tain : we daily see our friends and relatives hurried from the bustling scenes of life to tho cold and icy tomb ; those, perhaps, who wero as vigorous and as flourishing as ourselves, and who look forward like ourselves with flatter ing hopes and anticipations of years of easo and happiness, are cut off in the prime of their days ; and where are they ? They have left this wilderness of sorrow, and entered the un explored sea of eternity, and soon we must fol low them ; and as we may be snatched away in the bloom of youth, or as life’s sun may go down at noon, and we be called to meet an angry God, how necessary for us to improvo the time wisely, that our sun may go down in all the splendor and brightness of the perfect Christian, and rise again in all the beauty and triumph of the saints of God. N. Y. Christian Advocate &. Journal. MISCELLANEOUS. THAT HOLE IN THE POCKET. In this lies the true secret of economy —tho care of six-penees. Many people throw them awav without remorse or consideration —not reflecting that a penny a day is more than three dollars a year. \/e would complain loudly if a tax of that amount were laid upon us; but when we come to add all that we uselessly tax ourselves for our penny expenses, we shall find that we waste in this way annually quite enough to supply a family with winter fuel. It is now about a year since my wife said to me one day, “ Pray, Mr. Slack water, have you that half dollar about you that I gave you this morning?” I felt in my waistcoat pocket, anil I turned my purse inside out, hut it was uli empty space —which is very different from specie; sol said to Mrs. Stack water, “ I’vo lost it my dear; positively, there must be a hole in my pocket!” “I’ll sew it up,” said she. An hour or two after, I met Tom Stcbbins. “ llovv did that ice-cream set ?” said Tom. “It set,” said I “like the sun, gloriously.” And, as I spoke it flashed upon me that my missing half dollar had paid for those ice creams ; however, I held my jieace, for Mrs. Slack water sometimes makes remarks; and, even when she assured me at breakfast next morning that there was no hole in my pocket, what could I do but lift my brow and say, “Ah! isn’t there? really!” Before a week had gone by, my wife, who, like a dutiful helpmate as she is, always give me her loose change to keep, called for a 25 cent piece that had been deposited in my sub treasury for safe keeping; “there was a poor woman at the door,” she said, “that she’d promised it to for certain.” “Well, wait a moment,” I cried ; so I pushed inquiries first in this direction, then in that, then in the other; but vacancy returned a horrid groan.” “On mv soul,” said I, thinking it best to show a bold front “you must keep my pockets in bet ter repair, Mrs. Slackwater; this piece, with I know not how many more, is lost, because some corner or seam in my plaguey pockets is left open.” “Areyou sure?” said Mrs. Slackwater. “Sure"! ay, that I am, it’s gone! totally gone !” My «. l ife dismissed her promise, and then, in her quiet way, asked me to chango my pantaloons before I went out, and to bar all argument, laid another pair on my knees. That evening, allow me to remark, gentle men of the species “husband,” I was very loth to go home to tea ; I had half a mind to bore some bachelor friend; and when hun ger and habit, in their unassuming manner, one on each side walked me up to my door, the touch of the brass knob made my blood run cold. But do not think that Mrs. Slack , water is a Tartar, my good friends, because I thus shrunk from home, the fact was that I had, while abroad, called to mind the fate of her 25 cent piece, which I had invested in smoke, —that is to sav cigars ; and I feared to NO. 35.