satisfactory solution of this problem, or a closer approximation to it. It will change the minority into a majority, and we shall get the benefit of a division in which the strong side votes with us. Its arrival may be deferred, but the light which it throws forward is already reaching us. Nay it has reached, in times long past, every great spirit whom the truth has made free, and who, in daring to assert the prerogative of human thought, has done his part in the enfranchisement of his species. Our own country is an incident in the history of improvement, the sequel of which, if unfortunate, may influence, but cannot finally obstruct, the progress of knowledge. The heretic (as he was called) who fled into the desert to escape the fagot of his orthodox brethren, in the early days of the church, had the same cause with the pilgrims whom the Stuarts drove across the Atlantic. The one left a name, the other founded an empire, consecrated to human rights. Name and empire may both perish, still thought will not be enslaved; the veteris vestigia flammæ, the traces of that ancient fire, cannot be obliterated. We will no more stake the hopes of liberty upon the fate of one republic, than we would have done those of conscience upon the life of Wickliffe, or the progress of science upon the freedom of Galileo. We see them rather in the history of mankind, and in the exertions which every age renews with redoubled energy and effect. We see them in the increased and manifold strength with which, like Antæus, man rises from his successive prostrations upon the earth, in the calmer and more confident bearing of her advocates, and in the buoyant and persevering spirit of her cause. It is we who are dependent upon freedom, not freedom upon us. EPISTLE TO GIFFORD. BY WILLIAM CLIFTON. In these cold shades, beneath these shifting skies, There still are found a few to whom belong While this delirious age enchanted seems With hectic fancy's desultory dreams, While wearing fast away is every trace Of Grecian vigour, and of Roman grace, With fond delight, we yet one bard behold, As Horace polish'd, and as Persius bold, Reclaim the art, assert the Muse divine, And drive obtrusive dulness from the shrine. Since that great day which saw the tablet rise, A thinking block, and whisper to the eyes, No time has been that touch'd the Muse so near, No age when learning had so much to fear, As now, when love-lorn ladies light verse frame, And every rebus-weaver talks of fame. When Truth in classic majesty appeared, And Greece, on high, the dome of science reared, Alone the steep, the rough ascent could gain: None but the great the sun-clad summit found; No venal critic fattened on the trade; Books for delight, and not for sale were made. Swayed every impulse of the captive heart. When stedfast were its roots, and sound its heart, And, storm and time resisting, still remains Then, if some thoughtless Bavius dared appear, So, near a forest tall, some worthless flower Still, as from famed Ilyssus' classic shore, The valleys listen, and their swains rejoice; Thus Rome, with Greece, in rival splendour shone, While Horace, pierced, full oft, the wanton breast With many a well aimed thought, and pointed line, The But soon the arts, once more, a dawn diffuse, And Danté hail'd it with his morning Muse; Petrarch and Boccace joined the choral lay, And Arno glisten'd with returning day. Thus science rose; and, all her troubles passed, The poet wonder'd and the critic smiled; Touched with the mania, now, what millions rage To shine the laureat blockheads of the age. The dire contagion creeps thro' every grade, Girls, coxcombs, peers, and patriots drive the trade: And e'en the hind, his fruitful fields forgot, For rhyme and misery leaves his wife and cot. Ere, to his breast, the watchful mischief spread, Content and plenty cheer'd his little shed; And, while no thoughts of state perplex'd his mind, He laughed at toil, with health and vigour bless'd; |