scarce
  As equals deemed.  All passions of all men,
  The wild, the same, the gentle, the severe;
  All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane,
  All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity: 
  All that was hated, and all that was dear,
  All that was hoped, all that was feared by man,
  He tossed about as tempest withered leaves. 
  Then smiling looked upon the wreck he made. 
  With terror now he froze the cowering blood,
  And now dissolved the heart in tenderness,
  Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself,
  But back into his soul retired, alone. 
  Dark sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously
  On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet,
  So ocean from the plains, his waves had late
  To desolation swept, retired in pride,
  Exulting in the glory of his might,
  And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought,
  As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
  To which the stars did reverence as it passed,
  So he, through learning and through fancy took
  His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top
  Of fame’s dread mountain sat.  Not soiled and worn
  As if he from the earth had labored up,
  But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair
  He looked, which down from higher regions came,
  And perched it there to see what lay beneath. 
  The nations gazed and wondered much and praised;
  Critics before him fell in humble plight,
  Confounded fell and made debasing signs
  To catch his eye; and stretched, and swelled themselves
  To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words
  Of admiration vast:  and many, too
  Many, that aimed to imitate his flight,
  With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made,
  And gave abundant sport to after days.

  Great man! the nations gazed and wondered much,
  And praised and many called his evil good. 
  Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness;
  And kings to do him honor took delight: 
  Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame,
  Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full;
  He died!—­he died of what? of wretchedness! 
  Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump
  Of fame; drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts
  That millions might have quenched, then died
  Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. 
  His goddess, nature, woo’d, embrac’d, enjoy’d;
  Fell from his arms abhorred!

SELF-RELIANCE.

“Well, my dear Miss Willoughby, how is your mother this morning,” said a venerable looking clergyman as he pressed the hand of a fair young girl, apparently, not more than eighteen.  Her face was pale with watching, and her eyes were red with weeping, and though she seemed in deep distress, there was a subdued and resigned manner about her, as she replied: