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That run along the summit of these trees In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees In music; Thou art in the cooler breath Wave not less proudly that their ancestors That from the inmost darkness of the place Moulder beneath them. O, there is not Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the

lost ground,

One of Earth's charms! Upon her bosom The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with yet, Thee:

After the flight of untold centuries, Here is continual worship ;-nature, here, The freshness of her far beginning lies, In the tranquility that Thou dost love, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle Enjoys Thy presence. Noiselessly around,

hate From perch to perch, the solitary bird Of his arch-enemy,-Death, -yea, seats himPasses ;

yon clear spring that, midst its


Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre, Wells softly forth, and, wandering, steeps the And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe roots

Makes his own nourishment. For he came Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale

forth Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left From Thine own bosom, and shall have no Thyself without a witness, in these shades,

end. "Of Thy perfection. Grandeur, strength, and grace

There have been holy men who hid themAre here to speak of Thee. This mighty

selves oak,

Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave By whose immovable stem I stand and seem Their lives to thought and prayer, till they Almost annihilated, -not a prince,

outlived In all that proud old world beyond the deep. The generation born with them, nor seemed L'er wore his crown as loftily as he

Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Wears the green coronal of leaves with Around them;—and there have been holy

which Thy hand hath graced him. Nestled at his Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. root

But let me often to these solitudes
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Retire, and in Thy presence, reassure
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,

The passions, at Thy plainer footsteps With scented breath, and look so like a shrink, smile,

And tremble, and are still. O God! when Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,

Thou An emanation of the indwelling life,

Dost scare the world with tempests, set on A visible token of the upholding Love,

fire That are the soul of this wide universe. The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or

fill, My heart is awed within me when I think With all the waters of the firmament, Of the great miracle that still goes on, The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the In silence, round me,—the perpetual work

Oi Thy creation, finished, yet renewed And drowns the villages ; when, at Thy call,
Forever. Written on Thy works, I read Uprises the great deep, and throws himself
The lesson of Thy own eternity.

Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Lo! all grow old and die; but see again, Its cities,—who forgets not, at the sight
How on the fatering footsteps of decay

Of these tremendous tokens of Thy power, Youth presses,—ever gay and beautiful His prides, and lay his strifes and follies youth,



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UT how about killing fish for sport? In the name of sense, man, if

God made fish to be eaten, what difference does it make if I enjoy the killing of them before I eat them ? You would have none but a fisherman by trade do it, and then you would have him utter a sigh, a prayer, and a pious ejaculation at each cod or haddock that

he killed; and if by chance the old fellow, sitting in the boat at work, should for a moment think there was, after all, a little fun and a little pleasure in his business, you would have him take a round turn with his line, and drop on his knees to ask forgiveness for the sin of thinking there was sport in fishing

I can imagine the sadfaced melancholy-eyed man, who makes it his business to supply game for the market as you would have him, sober as the sexton in Hamlet, and forever moralizing over the gloomy necessity that has doomed him to a life of murder ? Why, good sir, he would frighten respectable fish, and the market would soon be destitute.

The keenest day's sport in my journal of a great many years of sport was when, in company with some other gentlemen, I took three hundred blue-fish in three hours' fishing off Block Island, and those fish were eaten




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the same night or the next morning in Stonington, and supplied from fifty to one hundred different tables, as we threw them up on the dock for any one to help himself. I am unable to perceive that I committed any sin in taking them, or any sin in the excitement and pleasure of taking them.

It is time moralists had done with this mistaken morality. If you eschew animal food entirely, then you may argue against killing animals,

and I will not argue with you. But
the logic of this business is simply
this: The Creator made fish and flesh
for the food of man, and as we can't
eat them alive, or if we do, we can't
digest them alive, the result is we
must kill them first, and (see the old
rule of cooking a dolphin) it is some-
times a further necessity, since they
won't come to be killed when we call
them, that we must first catch them.
Show first, then, that it is a painful
necessity, a necessity to be avoided if
possible, which a good man must
shrink from and abhor, unless starved
into it, to take fish or birds, and
which he must do when he does it
with regret, and with sobriety and

seriousness, as he would whip his child, or shave himself when his beard is three days old, and you have your case.

But till you show this, I will continue to think it great sport to supply my market with fish.




ZOMEWHAT back from the village | Half-way up the stairs it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands,
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; From its case of massive oak,
Across its antique portico

Like a monk wbo, under his cloak,
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; Crosses himself, and sighs, alas !
And, from its station in the hall,

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,
An ancient timepiece says to all,

" Forever-never!


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