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I will not here invoke the throng
Of orators and sons of song,

The deathless few;
Fiction entinor and doodirco,
And, sprinkled o'er its fragrant leaves,

Lies poisonous dew.
To One alone my thoughts arise,
The Eternal Truth,—the Good and Wise.


O lady, in the turmoils of our lives,
Men are like politic states, or troubled seas,
Tossed up and down with several storms and tempests,
Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes ;
Till, laboring to the havens of our homes,
We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends.


Oh gloria de mandar! Oh vana cobiça
Desta vaidade, a quem chamamos fama !
Oh fraudulento gosto, que se atiça
Co' huma aura popular, que honra se chama !
Que castigo tamanho, e que juctiça
Fazes no peito vao que muito w uma l
Que mortes ! Que perigos! Que tormentas!
Que crueldades nelles experimentas !

Dura inquietaçao da alma, e da vida;
Fonte de desemparos, e adulterios;
Sagaz consumidora conhecida
· De fazendas, de Reinos, e de Imperios.

Chamam-te illustre, chamam-te subida,
Sendo digna de infames vituperios :
Chamam-te fama, e gloria soberana ;
Nomes com quem se o povo nescio engana.


ONE of Schiller's Odes represents a young man introduced into a sanctuary of ancient Egypt, where, veiled from the profane gaze of vulgar eyes, stood the image of Eternal Truth. The rash intruder presumptuously raised the mysterious veil, and on the morrow the priests found him stretched upon the pavement of the temple, struck with incurable madness, and raving in frantic despair. The idea is impressive and striking in itself; and there are moments of time, and conditions of the mind, when such a picture is calculated to sink deeply into the soul. I rose from the perusal of the ode, but the image it awakened continued to haunt me in sleep. Agitated by a kind of delirium of the imagination, slumber fell upon my eyelids, but caused no interruption to the current of my thoughts.

I fancied myself to be wandering amid arid and barren mountains, bewildered in their savage wilds. Insensibly I seemed to be entering one of those subterranean galleries of Spain, where the

Carthaginians and Romans dug for gold, where the Goths sought a refuge, and where the Saracens hunted their human prey. I walked in darkness, except that, from time to time, a glimmering light penetrated through the fissures of the rocks, and illumined this abode of horrors. Plaintive accents or frightful howlings re-echoed through the gloomy vaults of the cavern, whose only tenants were ferocious beasts of prey, noxious reptiles, or unclean animals weltering in corruption.

In the midst of this scene of terror, rose a gigantic statue, enveloped in a silver shroud, graven with unknown and mysterious characters, which led me to suppose that the colossus was an Isis, transported perhaps into ancient Hesperia, in the days, when, according to the recital of the old historians, Sesostris embraced the Peninsula in the limits of the empire conquered by his arms. I approached, and soon discovered, beneath the pendent veil, the name of TRUTH, traced on the pedestal in letters of fire.

A religious awe seized on my soul. What!' cried I; “this terrible power, whose mysteries I have longed to penetrate, abides then within reach of my hand, and my regards ? I can push aside the tbin barrier, which veils her from my view; but the example of the wretch sung by Schiller confounds me; I do not dare. Dare!' echoed an imposing voice; and falling on my knees, as if in obedience to a divine inspiration, I raised my hands

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