Now, sir, for what does that celebrated pamphlet, " War in Disguise," which is said to have been written under the eye of the British prime minister, contend, but this "principle of necessity?" And this ground is abandoned by this pamphleteer at the very threshold of the discussion. But, as if this were not enough, he goes on to assign as a reason for not referring to the authority of the ancients, that "the great change which has taken place in the state of manners, in the maxims of war, and in the course of commerce, make it pretty certain" (what degree of certainty is this?) "that either nothing will be found relating to the question, or nothing sufficiently applicable to deserve attention in deciding it." Here, sir, as an apology of the writer for not disclosing the whole extent of his learning, (which might have overwhelmed the reader,) is the admission, that a change of circumstances ("in the course of commerce") has made (and therefore will now justify) a total change of the law of nations. What more could the most inveterate advocate of English usurpation demand? What else can they require to establish all, and even more than they contend for? Sir, there is a class of men-we know them very well-who, if you only permit them to lay the foundation, will build you up step by step, and brick by brick, very neat and showy if not tenable arguments. To detect them, 'tis only necessary to watch their premises, where you will often find the point at issue totally surrendered, as in this case it is. Again, is the mare liberum any where asserted in this book? that free ships make free goods ?- No, sir; the right of search is acknowledged; that enemy's property is lawful prize is sealed and delivered. And after abandoning these principles, what becomes of the doctrine that a mere shifting of the goods from one ship to another, the touching at another port changes the property? Sir, give up this principle, and there is an end of the question.

78.-DRESS AND ARMOUR OF SIR HUDIBRAS.

His doublet was of sturdy buff,
And though not sword, yet cudgel-proof,
Whereby 'twas fitter for his use,
Who fear'd no blows but such as bruise.

His breeches were of rugged woollen,
And had been at the siege of Bullen;
To old King Harry so well known,
Some writers held they were his own.
Through they were lined with many a piece
Of ammunition bread and cheese,

And fat black-puddings, proper food
For warriors that delight in blood :
For, as we said, he always chose -
To carry victual in his hose,
That often tempted rats and mice
The ammunition to surprise.

His puissant sword unto his side,
Near his undaunted heart, was tied,
With basket hilt that would hold broth,
And serve for fight and dinner both;
In it he melted lead for bullets
Toshoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,
To whom he bore so fell a grutch,
He ne'er gave quarter to any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack:
The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt,
The rancour of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devour'd, 'twas so manful,
And so much scorn'd to lurk in case,
As if it durst not show its face.
In many desperate attempts
Of warrants, exigents, contempts,
It had appear'd with courage bolder
Than Sergeant Bum invading shoulder :
Oft had it ta'en possession,
And prisoners too, or made them run.

This sword a dagger had, his page,

That was but little for his age;
And therefore waited on him so,
As dwarfs upon knights-errant do :

It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting or for drudging:
When it had stabb'd or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers, or chip bread;
Toast cheese or bacon, though it were
To bait a mousetrap, 'twould not care :
'Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth
Set leeks and onions, and so forth;
It had been 'prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure,
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.

In th' holsters, at his saddle-bow,

Two aged pistols he did stow,
Among the surplus of such meat
As in his hose he could not get :
These would inveigle rats with th' scent,
To forage when the cocks were bent,
And sometimes catch 'em with a snap,
As cleverly as the ablest trap :
They were upon hard duty still,
And every night stood sentinel,
To guard th' magazine i' th' hose
From two-legg'd and from four-legg'd foes.
Thus clad and fortified, Sir Knight,

From peaceful home, set forth to fight. BUTLER

79.-DESCRIPTION OF WYOMING.

On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming! Although the wild flower on thy ruin'd wall And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring Of what thy gentle people did befall; Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall, And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore ! Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies, The happy shepherd swains had naught to do, But feed their flocks on green declivities, Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe,

From morn, till evening's sweeter pastime grew, With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown, Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew; And aye those sunny mountains half-way down Would echo flageolet from some romantic town.

Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes His leave, how might you the flamingo see Disporting like a meteor on the lakesAnd playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree: And every sound of life was full of glee, From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men; While hearkening, fearing naught their revelry, The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and then Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.

And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime Heard, but in transatlantic story rung, For here the exile met from every clime, And spoke in friendship every distant tongue : Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung, Were but divided by the running brook; And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung, On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook, The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook. CAMPBELL.

80.-SONG OF THE GREEK BARD.

THE Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,-
Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free
For standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men and nations-all were his! He counted them at break of dayAnd when the sun set-where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore Th' heroic lay is tuneless now

Th' heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred-grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylæ!

What silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no:- the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, "Let one living head, But one arise, we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain-in vain !-strike other chords:
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call-
How answers each bold bacchanal !