gave no orders for the building of St. Peter's; but taught his disciples in the streets, in the cornfields, by the sea-shore; and upon the mountains. He said nothing about burning candles, or counting beads, or kissing anybody's great toe. Nothing about the establishment of Convents, or of Inquisitions; or of a class of men to live on tithes, and suck their sustenance from other men's labors. He never called his followers to take up arms in defence of their faith, much less of their Churches, for they had none; but told the zealous and impetuous Peter to put up his sword; and not to fight with carnal weapons in behalf of One whose kingdom was not of this world. Another reason for rejecting Romanism is, that it is incompatible with Republicanism. It is essentially the religion of ignorance and superstition. It is based upon the fears of men-and these fears grow out of their vices. What need has an honest man of any "confessional" outside of his own heart, or his own closet? Why resort to the impossible intervention of the Priest to settle an account between himself and his God? The very statement of the proposition exposes the impious absurdity of the creed. But do we, then, believe that all Romanists are not Christians? By no means. The memory of Fenelon is sufficient to redeem any sect from utter condemnation; and he is but one of hundreds of Roman Catholics whose beautiful lives are embalmed in history. It is the institution, the Church itself, that we detest, and not its individual members. The uneducated, ignorant believer in Romanism, may sincerely and honestly cherish his faith. It is with him sin ply the "fides carbonaria"-the faith of the collier, who, when asked about his religious belief, replied that he believed what the Church believed; and when asked what the Church believed, innocently said, the Church believed what he believed. But the more intelligent Romanist can hardly be sincere in his professions.—He knows that Popery is a humbug; that Pio Nino is no more than a man, upon whose life and conduct the AllSeeing God looks with the same impartial eye that he looks on all his creatures. He knows that there is no especial virtue in the Pope's blessing (not half so much as in his mother's), and that his anathemas are as idle as the commonest every-day denunciation—not half as much to be feared as a hot curse shot from the heart of some blasted woman. He knows, in a word, that Popes, Cardinals and Bishops are but fallible mortals, mere worms of the dust, whose ashes, a hundred years hence, the most bigoted papist on the earth would not be able to distinguish from those of the noblest heretic whom the Church has ever burned for daring to assert his belief in the supremacy of man over all his institutions,-for acknowledging his allegiance to the eternal God rather than to a mere creature of a day like himself. BUNKER HILL. BY RICHARD HAYWARDE. Ir was a starry night in June; the air was soft and still, When the "minute-men" from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill: Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet, But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms beat; And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, "We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the dead!" "Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!" The trench is marked-the tools are brought-we utter not a word, But stack our guns, then fall to work, with mattock and with spade, A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made : So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell; We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "All's well!" And here and there a twinkling port, reflected on the deep, In many a wavy, shadow showed their sullen guns asleep. Sleep on, thou bloody hireling crew! in careless slumber lie; The trench, is growing broad and deep, the breast-work broad and high: No striplings we, but bear the arms that held the French in check, The drum that beat at Louisburgh, and thundered in Quebec ! And thou, whose promise is deceit, no more thy word we'll trust, Thou butcher GAGE! thy power and thee we'll humble in the dust; Thou and thy tory minister have boasted to thy brood, "The lintels of the faithful shall be sprinkled with our blood !" But though these walls those lintels be, thy zeal is all in vain : A thousand freemen shall rise up for every freeman slain; And when o'er trampled crowns and thrones they raise the mighty shout, This soil their Palestine shall be! their altar this redoubt! See how the morn is breaking! the red is in the sky; For the ruddy flash and round shot part in thunder from her side; And the Falcon and the Cerberus make every bosom thrill, With gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's whistle shrill ; But deep and wider grows the trench, as spade and attock ply, For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is draw ing nigh! Up with the pine-tree banner! Our gallant PRESCOrr stands Amid the plunging shells and shot, and plants it with his hands: Up with the shout! for PUTNAM comes upon his reeking bay, With bloody spur and foamy bit, in haste to join the fray : And POMEROY, with his snow-white hairs, and face all flush and sweat, Unscathed by French and Indian, wears a youthful glory yet. But thou, whose soul is glowing in the summer of thy years, Unvanquishable WARREN, thou (the youngest of thy peers) Wert born, and bred, and shaped, and made to act a patriot's part, And dear to us thy presence is as heart's blood to the heart! Well may ye bark, ye British wolves! with leaders such as they, Not one will fail to follow where they choose to lead the way : As once before, scarce two months since, we followed on your track, And with our rifles marked the road ye took in going back. Ye slew a sick man in his bed; ye slew, with hands accursed, A mother nursing, and her blood fell on the babe she nursed : By their own doors our kinsmen fell and perished in the strife But as we hold a hireling's cheap, and dear a freeman's life, ; |