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them, of the late Convention in Virginia, and the speeches delivered at the great State Rights celebration in Charleston, and say if a doubt can rest upon the subject ? No, fellow prisoners, a power greater than man's has given us the right to roam at large through this vast universe, reaping where we may, and untrammelled by the odious restrictions cunningly devised by the grasping and rapacious; and since it is our unfortunate lot to live in an age, as yet unenlightened, and shackled by the chains which have been artfully forged by priests and tyrants, let us go on nobly in our design of revolutionizing the opinions of the world, and never rest until we introduce that primitive and happy state of things which existed antecedent to all lawwhen our first parents were left free to wander forth, with the inestimable privilege

“Where to choose their place of rest,

And Providence their guide.” I thank you, fellow prisoners, for the patience with which you have listened to me, and since propriety forbids me to trespass further upon your time, I will conclude with a Toast, in which I am sure of your hearty concurrence :

Miss Fanny Wright-May the dissemination of her doctrines speedily uproot the foundations of society. Drank with three times three. Music, Black Joke.

3d. The Art of Stealing—A Spartan virtue—what Lycurgus ordained, and Shakspeare practised, who can censure ?

4th. The progress of UNCIVIL Liberty—as exemplified in the daily dexterity of our light-fingered gentry.

5th. The Tariff—That greatest of pick-pockets.

6th. The Press-We mean crowded theatres and plenty of pocket-books.

7th. The renowned Barrington—The first in-the pockets of his countrymen. 8th. The memory of Richard Turpin,

He took from the rich to give to the poor,

Oh rare Turpinaro, oh rare Dick Turpin, oh! . 9th. Jonathan Wild—The ornament of yon-rope.

10th. The knife which GRINS at the leather strap of a pair of saddle-bags. Immense applause.

11th. Jacob HaysThe devil incarnate-too cunning for rogues, he must himself be the chief among them, a speedy ride for him upon the “'oss that's foaled of a hacorn,'

12th. Petit Larceny—The early promise of future exaltation. 13th. Mail Bags ripped open, and contents scattered.

Music, Loose to the winds." 14th. The Pocket, the whole Pocket, and every thing in the Pocket. Music, “Lucy Locket's lost her pocket.”

15th. The Destruction of the Bastile-praised but not imitated.

16th. Prostration to the walls of every prison in the universe, and a general Jail Delivery by the horns of some Political Joshua. 17th. The women in the Penitentiary—“The world

Music, The Campbells are coming." The whole party being half shaved, and the keeper not liking the last toast, nodded to his sentinels like imperial Jove,

When in an instant all was still,

And scarcely were his forces rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

Tam O'SHANTER.

was sad.

THE COFFIN.

The Coffin is come! 'tis a dreadful sound!

And tears are gushing anew,
For the family, wrapp'd in grief profound,

Have caught that sound as it flew;
It sendeth a shock to each aching heart,

Suspending with awe the breath ;
It says that the living and dead must part,

And seems like a second death.

Now heavy and slow is the bearers' tread,

Ascending the winding stair,
And the steps which are echoing over head

Awaken a deep despair;
They know by the tread of those trampling feet

They're lifting the silent dead,
And laying him low in his winding sheet,

In his dark and narrow bed.
Come, follow the corpse to the yawning grave-

The train is advancing slow;
See children and friends, and the faithful slave

In a long and solemn show-
Hark! hark! to that deep and lumbering sound

As they lower the coffin down,
'Tis the voice of earth—of the groaning ground

Thus welcoming back her own.
Now-ashes to ashes! and dust to dust!

How hollow the coffin rings!
And hands are uplifted to God, the Just,

The merciful King of kings-
“Farewell forever! Forever farewell !”.

Is heard as the crowds depart,
And the piteous accents, they seem to swell

From ā torn and broken heart.

THE OLD CHURCH. There it stands, the old Church, on the common, alone,

With the moss and the lichen grown gray ; Its roof is all sunken, and its doors are broke down, And in “window'd raggedness” dark seems its frown

On each mortal, who chanceth this way. Like a skeleton bare, in the moon's silver ray,

That old building stands out ’mongst the dead ; And the trav’ller in passing, stops short on his way, Gazing up at that picture of ghastly decayWhence every thing living hath fled.

There was joy in heaven, and rejoicing on earth,

When the stone of that corner was laid ; For “the wilderness bloom'd like the rose at its birth," And it brought the “glad tidings of peace” to each

hearthAs it gather'd the flock which had stray'a.

Come enter that Ruin and stroll down its aisle,

Let us muse on its glory o’erthrownSee, the walls are distain'd' by the scrawls of the vile, And hands sacrilegious have plunderd the pile

And its pavement with grass is o’ergrown.

Yet once, it was glorious, and its aspect was grand

And as smooth as the velvet, its green, Which was trod by the great and the gay of this land, Whose gravestones in ruins around it now stand,

Like their spectres, still haunting the scene.

It was here that in grandeur and wealth they once roll’d;

And that Beauty enchanted the eye, When bedeck'd with her jewels and glittring with gold, She stepp'd from her chariot, all bright to behold,

And her bosom with pride, beating high.

What a change since that time!-how their riches have

flown; Scarce a name on their tombs can be found; For old Time hath unchisell’d the letters of stone, And the slabs are all green with the moss overgrown,

And half buried they lie in the ground.

Thou art ruin’d, old Fane! yes, the arrow hath sped,

And the iron hath enter'd indeed; Yet thousands, yea, thousands have risen in thy stead. Thy glory is vanish’d, but thy spirit not fled,

For the blood of the martyrs is seed."*

* The blood of the martyrs, is said to be the seed of the Church.

"I Went to Gather flowers.' Suggested by an engraving with the above motto, representing a female who had been gathering flowers, as coming unexpectedly upon old tombstones in a wood.

“I went to gather flowers,

So spake a lovely maid-
But why, amid those bowers,

Hangs down her drooping head?
Swift flew the laughing hours,

As tripp'd that gladsome maid;
Why hath she dropped her flowers ?

Why covers she her head ?
I mark what 'tis that causes

Her heart that sudden thrill;
I see why 'tis she pauses-

What thoughts her bosom fill :
Old graves are yawning on her,

Beneath the flow'ry sward ;
Green tombstones stare upon her

From out an old churchyard.
A tale of dread they've told her,

Of beauty and its charms;
They've whisper'd Death would hold her

Within his mould’ring arms;
That after some bright hours

And fast bright hours fly-
Some one might gather flowers

Where she in dust might lie.
Oh, how her teeth did chatter,

Oh how her frame was shook ;
The tott'ring stones nod at her;

Look, gentle maidens, look!
Go-gather not all flowers,

Though they should gaily bloom;
The sweetest breathe in bowers,

Too near, too near the tomb.

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