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ORIGINAL POETRY. 
—— 
EPIC FRAGMENTS—No. IV. 
RELIGION. 
[The Speaker is a Pilgrim of ‘‘the Emerald Isle.”} 
Nor vainly deem our Christian law alone 
(Albeit the law of boundless peace and love), 
Where civil institution grows relax, 
Or panders to the pride it should restrain, 
Can bow the public will, and curb the rage 
Of factious emulation. Not in vain 
Our Patrick and Columbo, heaven-inspir’d, 
Preach’d to the lowly meek: but the proud 
great 
Have their own inborn faith, ambition-fed ! 
The faith of man for them, not they for God: 
Monopolists, not stewards, of his boon ! 
This is their law and gospel ; and their aim, 
To make the worship of the abject throng 
(Whether by Druid, or Monastic taught) 
Accessory to their will. Would’st thou protect 
The faith of truth and holiness, on these 
Fix thy strong curb; nor let the fawning priest 
Be of their arrogance the feudatory. 
Let not Religion, adverse from its end, 
Be made Oppression’s tool. ’Tis ‘* Peace 
on earth’’— 
That holy faith of meckness heaven-reveal’d ; 
But peace thro’ equal justice—equal rights 
Amid subordinate ranks: the peace of love— 
But love commutual and reciprocal— 
As binding on the high as on the low : 
Peace, strenuous in the maintenance of right ; 
Not peaceable submission to the lusts 
Of full-blown Tyranny — who, while he 
vaunts : 
Of sacred order and paternal care, 
And hearths and altars, to the carnage field 
Of his profane ambition, reckless, leads 
His myriad bands, all order to confound, 
But that of measur’d massacre :—to give 
The reins to rapine, havock, rage and lust 5 
The temple, dome and cottage to confound ; 
Lay waste the vintage, and the harvest blight ; 
? Till Devastation wraps the circling realms 
In one wide flame: and then, with fiend- 
like pride 
Exulting o’er the desert he has made, 
Mingling his incense with the putrid steam 
That blots the face of heaven, insults his God 
With thanks and praises fur the prosperous 
crime _ 
Shall gild on Glory’s page an impious name. 
J.T. 
SONG. 
te 
I musr believe thee still sincere, 
Though all the world should doubt thee ; 
For when thou’rt nigh, I lose my fear, 
There seems such truth about thee. 
A passion pure thy glances tell, 
And in thy bosom’s heaving, 
Where heav’n resides, can coldness dwell— 
Or aught that is deceiving ? 
a 
No—never in a shrine so pure, 
Could falsehood fix its dwelling— 
Or those angelic lips allure, 
By tale deceitful telling : 
And I, till death dissolve the spell, 
Will joy in thus believing— 
For not where heay’n resides can dwell 
A thought that is deceiving. L.L, T. 
SON G. 
I. 
Wuen Nature, all smiling, dispels the brief 
shower, 
And walks the glad earth in her garment 
of green,— 
Her blush in each blossom, her breath in 
each flower 
That springs forth to greet her where’er 
she is seen !— 
Yet life is unblest, amid verdure and bloom, 
Though the briglit sun of summer may 
beam from above, 
And the lone heart must wither in darkness 
and gloom, 
If uncheer’d by the smile—the sweet sun- 
shine of love. 
il. 
When winter, all cheerless, his cold reign 
resuming, 
In snow clothes the mountain, and fetters 
the stream ; 
And blights with his breath ey’ry plant 
should be blooming, 
Enshrouding in darkness the health- 
bringing beam : 
Yet, e’en in those moments, the heart may 
be light,— 
Though storms rage below, and rude 
thunders above— : 
And the eye, like a star through the tempest, 
be bright, 
If cheer’d by the smile—the sweet radiance 
of love. L.L. T. 
HORACE—Ode 30, Book III. 
I now have rais’d a firmer monument 
Than loftiest pyramids, work of regal pride : 
The biting rain and Boreas impotent, 
Innumerous years, and the all-levelling tide 
Of Time, uninjured, shall its strength defy. 
Ishall not perish; the dread queen of hell 
My nobler part shall spare. As long shall I 
Tower to new fame, as to Rome’s citadel 
Jove’s highest priest shall lead the silent maid. 
I (where rough Aufidus swift foams along, 
Where Daunus o’er dry plains the sceptre 
sway’d, 
And herdsmen rude), the first who Latian 
song, : 
To Coen tun’d, shall find renown: 
Sprung from a humblerace. O Muse! assume 
Your honours due, and joyful bind the'crown 
Of Delphi on my brow, that mocks the envious 
tomb, A. S. 
