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footstool of power, or in which principle had been sacrificed for the vanity or lucre of place; but still there was no allusion to Canning, and no connection, that ordinary men could discover, with the business before the house. When, however, he had collected every material which suited his purpose, - when the mass had become big and black, -he bound it about and about with the cords of illustration and of argument; when its union was secure, he swung it round and round, with the strength of a giant and the rapidity of a whirlwind, in order that its impetus and effect might be the more tremendous; and while doing this, he ever and anon glared his eye, and pointed his finger, to make the aim and the direction sure. Canning himself was the first that

seemed to be aware where and how terrible was to be the collision; and he kept writhing his body in agony, and rolling his eyes in fear, as if anxious to find some shelter from the impending bolt. The house soon caught the impression, and every man in it was glancing his eye fearfully, first towards the orator, and then towards the secretary.

There was save the voice of Brougham, which growled in that under tone of thunder which is so fearfully audible, and of which no speaker of the day was fully master but himself— a silence, as if the angel of retribution had been opening, in the faces of all parties, the scroll of their private sins. A pen, which one of the secretaries dropped upon the matting, was heard in the remotest part of the house; and the visiting members, who often slept in the side galleries during the debate, started up as though the final trump had been calling them to give an account of their deeds. The stiffness of Brougham's figure had vanished; his features seemed concentrated almost to a point; he glanced towards every part of the house in succession, and sounded the death-knell of the secretary's forbearance and prudence. With both his clinched hands upon the table, he hurled at him an accusation more dreadful in its gall, and more torturing in its effects, than ever has been hurled at mortal man within the

same walls. The result was instantaneous was electric: it was as when the thunder-cloud descends upon some giant peak one flash, one peal!—the sublimity vanished, and all that remained was a small pattering of rain. Canning started to his feet, and was able only to utter the unguarded words, "It is false!"—to which followed a dull chapter of apologies. From that moment, the house became more a scene of real business than of airy display and of angry vituperation.


The Laborer.




Thou hast the form

And likeness of thy God! - Who more?
A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm

Of daily life, a heart as warm
And pure, as breast e'er wore.

What then?-Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the great plan
That with creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy? The high

In station, or in wealth the chief?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye?
Nay! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast,

What were the proud one's scorn to thee?

A feather which thou mightest cast
Aside, as idly as the blast

The light leaf from the tree.

No: uncurbed passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect,
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
Forever, till thus checked;

These are thine enemies thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot;
Thy labor and thy life accursed.
O, stand erect, and from them burst,
And longer suffer not.

Thou art thyself thine enemy:
The great! what better they than thou?
As theirs is not thy will as free?
Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow ?

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True, wealth thou hast not -'tis but dust;
Nor place uncertain as the wind;

But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust

Of both a noble mind.

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With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up then; that thy little span
Of life may be well trod.



Passing Away. JOHN PIERPONT.

WAS it the chime of a tiny bell,

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell

That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light,

And he his notes, as silvery quite,

While the boatman listens and ships his oar,

To catch the music that comes from the shore?
Hark! the notes, on my ear that play,
Are set to words: as they float, they say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

But no; it was not a fairy's shell,

Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear; Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,

Striking the hour, that filled my ear,

As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime
That told of the flow of the stream of time.
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung;
(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring
That hangs in his cage, a Canary bird swing;)
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,
And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

O, how bright were the wheels, that told

Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow!

And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,
Seemed to point to the girl below.

And lo! she had changed: in a few short hours,
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung
In the fulness of grace and womanly pride,
That told me she soon was to be a bride;
Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
In the same sweet voice I heard her say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,

Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,

Looking down on a field of blossoming clover The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush Had something lost of its brilliant blush;

And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, That marched so calmly round above her,

as when evening steals Upon noon's hot face; — yet one couldn't but love her, For she looked like a mother, whose first babe lay Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; And she seemed, in the same silver tone to say, "Passing away! passing away!"

Was a little dimmed,


While yet I looked, what a change there came!
Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan;
Stooping and staffed was her withered frame;
Yet just as busily swung she on.

The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
The wheels above her were eaten with rust;
The hands that over the dial swept

Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept,

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