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when death rides the storm, and humanity drops a fruitless tear for the toiling mariner whose heart is sinking with dismay !
And yet , mighty deep ! 'tis thy surface alone we view Who can penetrate the secrets of thy wide domain ? What eye can visit thy immense rocks and caverns, that teem with life and vegetation ? – Or search out the myriads of objects, whose beauties lie scattered over thy dread abyss ?
The mind staggers with the immensity of her own conceptions, and when she contemplates the flux and reflux of thy tides, which from the beginning of the world were never known to err , how does she shrink at the idea of that Divine Power, which originally laid the foundations so sure, and whose omnipotent voice hath fixed the limits where thy proud waves shall be stayed ?
LIBERTY AND SLAVERY.
DSGUISE thyself as thou wilt ,
still Slavery! still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. It is thou,, Liberty , thrice sweet and gracious goddess, whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful , and ever will be so , till nature herself shall change –
no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chvmic power turn thy sceptre into iron. with thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven ! grant me but health , thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion ; and shower down thy mitres, is it seams good unto thy divine providence , upon those heads which are aching for them.
Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table , and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the mi
series of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.
I was going to begin with the millions of my
fellow-creatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it
and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me
-I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.
I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arise from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer I saw him pale and feverish : in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood - he had seen no sun, no moon in all that time
nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through bis lattice. His children
- But here my heart began to bleed, and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.
He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest corner of his
dungeon , which was alternately his chair and bled : a little calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there - he had one of these little sticks in his hand , and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had , he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down - shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle - He gave a deep sigh - I saw the iron enter into his soul-- I burst into tears - I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.
A POOR monk of the order of St. Francis came into the room to beg something for his convent. The moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was pre-determined not to give him a single sou, and accordingly I
put my purse into my pocket - button'd it up set myself a little more upon my centre and advanced up gravely to him : there was something , I fear, forbidding in my look : I have his figure this moment before my eyes; and think there was that in it which deserved better.
The monk as I judged from the break in his tonsure , a few scattered white hairs upon his temples being all that remained of it, might be about seventy -- but from his eyes , and that sort of fire which was in them, which seemed more tempered by çourtesy
could be no more than sixty - Truth might lie between – He was certainly sixty-five ; and the general air of his countenance notwithstanding something seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time , agreed to the aecount.
It was one of those heads, which Guido has often painted — mild, pale , penetrating, free from all common-place ideas of fat contented ignorance looking downwards upon the earth - it look'd forwards; but look'd, as if it look'd at something beyond this world. How one of his order came by it, Heaven above, who let it fall upon