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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.
WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.
Thou hast the form
And likeness of thy God! - Who more?
Of daily life, a heart as warm
What then?-Thou art as true a man
Who is thine enemy? The high
In station, or in wealth the chief?
If true unto thyself thou wast,
What were the proud one's scorn to thee?
A feather which thou mightest cast
The light leaf from the tree.
No: uncurbed passions, low desires,
These are thine enemies thy worst;
Thou art thyself thine enemy:
True, wealth thou hast not -'tis but dust;
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
Of both a noble mind.
With this, and passions under ban,
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?
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
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,
And lo! she had changed: in a few short hours,
While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade
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!
The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept,