every light in which it was capable,; but it has been all in vain,.

Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms, shall we find, which have not been already exhausted,? Let us not, I beseech you, deceive ourselves longer,. Sir', we have done everything that could be done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned; we have remonstrated,; we have sUPPLICATED,; we have PROSTRATED, ourselves at the foot of the throne, and implored its interposition to arrest, the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parliament. Our petitions' have been slighted,; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult`; our supplications' have been disregarded,; and we have been spurned,, with contempt,, from the foot of the throne.

In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free; if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending'; if we mean not basely to abandon, the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never, to abandon, until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained', we must fight! I repeat it,, sir, WE MUST FIGHT!! An appeal to arms,, and the God of Hosts,, is all that is left us. They tell us, sir', that we are weak,; unable to cope, with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger, ? Will it be the next week', or the next year'? Will it be, when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs', and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound

us hand and foot'? Sir', we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means', which the God of nature hath placed in our power.

Three millions of people,, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, we shall not fight our battles -alone'. There is a just God, who presides over the destinies of nations'; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong' alone; it is to the vigilant· the active, the brave,. Besides, we have no election. we were base enough to desire, it, it is now too late to retire from the contest,. There is no, retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged,. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable;

and

If

Gentlemen may cry

- let it come!! I repeat it, LET IT COME,!!! It is in vain to extenuate the matter,. peace', peace'; but there is no, peace.

The war is actually

What would they have? as to be purchased at the

begun. The next gale that sweeps from the north', will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren' are already in the field! Why stand we, - here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish,? Is life so dear', or peace so sweet', price of chains' and slavery'? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others' may take; but as for me', give me liberty' or GIVE ME DEATH,.

134. LOW PITCH.

Low Pitch is used in the delivery of solemn, serious, pathetic and devotional thought, and in giving expression to emotions of awe, melancholy, gloom and despair,

135. Examples: SOLEMNITY.

58.

[From "Long Ago." —B. F. Taylor.]

Oh! a wonderful stream is the river Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme
And a broader sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends in the ocean of years!

How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow,

And the summers like birds between,

And the years in the sheaf, how they come and they go On the river's breast with its ebb and flow,

As it glides in the shadow and sheen!

There's a Magical Isle up the river Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing.
There's a cloudless sky and tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are straying.

And the name of this Isle is "the Long Ago,”
And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow,
There are heaps of dust -oh! we love them so
And there are trinkets and tresses of hair.

There are fragments of songs that nobody sings,
There are parts of an infant's prayer,

There's a lute unswept and a harp without strings,
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments our dead used to wear.

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air,

And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river was fair.

Oh! remembered for aye be that blessed Isle,
All the day of life until night;

And when evening glows with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing in slumbers awhile,
May the greenwood of soul be in sight.

SERIOUS THOUGHT

SUBLIMITY AWE.

59.

[From "Immortality of the Soul." - Addison.]

CATO'S SOLILOQUY.

It must be so Plato, thou reasonest well!
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror
Of falling into naught? why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;

'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes, must we pass!
The wide, the unbounded prospect, lies before me;
But shadows, clouds and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us

(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud

Through all her works), He must delight in virtue;
And that which He delights in, must be happy;

But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures, - this must end them.

[Laying his hand on his sword.

Thus am I doubly armed; my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me;
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the Sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful, to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound

Save his own dashings, yet the dead are there!