No victims could he find, his rage to glut,
No armies to destroy, no throats to cut.

And one there was whose pride it was to boast
That awe-struck nations trembled at his nod,
And that beneath the trampling of his host

No grass should grow, nor grain spring from the sod, While men in multitudes, to manhood lost,

With shout and cymbal hailed the demi-god :

The demi-devil 't were more fit by far

To name each thirsty thunderbolt of war:

The spoilers of the earth who prowl for prey,
The single Cæsar, and the swarming Hun,
Whose thought is murder, and whose lust of sway
Consumes each lovely land it lights upon -
The burning cities, through each fearful day,
Roll up their volumed smoke to blot the sun:
They strive to hide (but that can never be)
Man's worse than demon deeds from Deity.

We each look forward to some future good,
And see it plainly through the telescope
Of mental phantasy, which doth intrude
Upon our vision all the hues of hope;
New strength we gain to breast the billows rude,
But with the swelling wave we vainly cope:
Down, down we go-and when we thus descend,
We leave a dozen foes for every friend.

NEW YORK, July, 1846.

J. W. M.

WAITING FOR INSPIRATION.

BY A MEMBER OF EMPIRE LODGE.

TO SIT and muse, with quill in hand,
And eye in "phrensy rolling,"
While o'er the silent, slumb'ring land,
The midnight hour is tolling:

To conjure up all forms of thought,
The grand, the wild, the gentle —
To see the forms your mind has wrought,
Glide, ghost-like, 'neath the lintel,

Till, by the dim, uncertain light,

Thrown from your sulph'rous taper,

You see a thousand shapes of night
About your table caper:

Such scenes may suit the addled brain
Of some Parnassus climber,

But truly give a deal of pain

To this poor sleepy rhymer.

I've dipped, and dipped, and still the ink
Has dried, while thought was busy:

Oh, what a torment 't is to think!
E'en now my brain is dizzy.

I've ranged the whole creation through,
Each system, sun, and planet;

And where the comet swept the blue.
My laboring thought outran it.

I've trod the glorious courts of Jove,
I've "supped with Pluto," even;

But not a subject could I move,
From Hades, Earth, or Heaven.

Then, since the mind is loath to choose,

Though thick with fancies teeming,

I'll take a nightcap and a snooze,
And try what luck's in dreaming.

NEW YORK, July, 1846.

O. J.

SHORT PASSAGES FROM A LONG ADDRESS,

BY A MEMBER OF JEFFERSON LODGE.

Do we, as Odd-Fellows, exhibit to the world the true spirit of Odd-Fellowship -the all-conquering and universal spirit of LOVE? Do we, amid the strife of business, the turmoil of life, the hue-and-cry of partisans and visionaries, regard those duties toward each other which we have promised always to perform? **** It is well enough for us sometimes to analyze our feelings and actions, and to ask ourselves whether we are truly actuated by the promptings of that Love which our lectures and charges illustrate and teach. ***

All are not Odd-Fellows, in the true sense of that word, who profess to be such. Many-too many-are members of the Order, who disgrace it by their palpable selfishness. They neither befriend nor love any one; but they expect everybody to love and befriend them. From such men nothing can be expected; and to such men it is useless to talk of friendship and love. But the true OddFellow knows what is required of him, and strives to per

form it. He is often willing to forego an advantage himself, if he may thereby aid or assist his brother.

*** To these latter we would say, Let not the conduct of the selfish and heartless "Odd-Fellow" discourage you. He has promised only; you have accomplished. Men will honor your truth, while they contemn his falsehood; and they will despise him while they respect you. The fact that he is a curse to the Order should make you more eager to prove a blessing to it. *** How much is there for you to perform! how many objects of sympathy are around you! You have done well in time past. -"Be not weary in well-doing."

It is the duty of Odd-Fellows to illustrate in their lives and conduct the spirit of Charity. Nothing is more incompatible with Odd-Fellowship than selfishness. * *

** What is LOVE? what its spirit? It is as mild as an infant's breath, yet resistless as the lightning-shaft; it is gentle as the lamb that licks the hand of its destroyer, yet more controlling and powerful than the elements that rend the mountains. Tempest, earthquake, and fire, were less powerful than the still, small voice, that softly fell on the prophet's ear from the lips of Jehovah. So, the soothing words of kindness and sympathy will melt the heart to tenderness when the tempest of passion shall have spent its violence in vain. LovE shall conquer, and subdue, and win her trophies, when the earthquake of rage shall have wasted its energies, and the fire of hatred have been for ever quenched.