The Cecil Whig

From the N. Y. Sunday Mercury
SHORT PATENT SERMON.
BY DOW, JR.
The following stanzas by H. T. Tuckerman,
will compose my text for this occasion.
Give me the boon of love,
Fame's trumpet strains depart;
But love's sweet lute breathes melody
That lingers in the heart;
And the scroll of fame will burn,
When sea and earth consume,
But the rose of love in a happier sphere,
Will live in deathless bloom!
My hearers-pure love, love without licentiousness or sensuality, is manufactured by the
angels in heaven expressly for this terrestrial market. It is a glorious thing for us that a friendly
intercourse is still maintained in relation to
this indispensable commodity; for without love,
we should be as morose and miserable as an old
maid without. It keeps the heart moist with the
gentle dews of affection-renders soft and pliable
the putty of pity and calls up spirits of compassion from the vasty deep of human selfishness.
I know there are some, who prefer fame to
love-who had rather plunge headlong into perdition with the world's applause, than push for
paradise alone and unnoticed. But, my friends,
why should they make a fever in the brain
and set their blood boiling for the sake of gaining
a wreath whose green leaves shall but decorate a withered brow, & wave above a bosom
barren in peace and comfort Give me. the
boon of love! I had much rather 'lay off'' and
bask in the warm sunshine of affection, than be
led by crazy ambition to the top of the mountain,
where cold winds rave and everlasting snows encompass. Oh, I had rather lean upon a breast
that beats responsive to mine, and feast upon
kisses, than sit pavillioned upon a kingly throne,
and be pricked by the pins of care, an object of
fear and favor, but not of love.
My friends--renown is but a hollow sound
that echoes through the silent halls of death,
where it dies away, and is heard no more. The
path of fame is a dreary one-now leading
through a gloomy vale of disappointment, and
now bordering upon precipices and dangerous
chasms, down which one may tumble ere he is
aware of it, and break himself into so many pieces,
that while one eye was hunting after his
nose the other could go to sleep for an hour and
wake up in time to see it properly adjusted.
One single wild flower plucked from the path of
love-no matter how lowly or humble it may be
-looks prettier and smells sweeter than the
brightest blossoms that ambition may cull from
the hot houses of fame.—There is as much difference between the two as there is between a
toad stool and the handsomest hollyhocks that
grow spontaneous upon the outskirts of heaven.
O, then give me the boon of love! The will-o
wisp of fame shines at a distance with a cold.
phosphorescent glow, amid the fogs of doubt and
uncertainty; but the light of love is near and
cheering. It gradually warms a person all over
from one extremity to the other-thaws out feelings of tenderness that have lain congealed in a
long winter of misanthropy-and, every now and
then drops a new spark upon the tinder of his affections. One tender glance from the bright eye
of beauty, in a cold day, will throw calorie enough into the soul to keep the body warm for a
week; and our thermometers of joy and pleasure
will stand upon an average at fever heat. But
the flame of glory, my friends, burns fitfully &
scorchingly for a few moments upon the funeral
pyre of man's happiness, and then leaves him
surrounded by the midnight darkness of the tomb.
My dear friends,--give me but the boon of
love and I will ask no other. There is no more
music in the wild, harsh, trumpet-strains of fame,
than there is in a woman's whistling. They resound for awhile over mountain and plain, rousing toads, lizards and loafers to peep from their
holes in wonder and astonishment--and then
they depart forever: but the soft, sweet lute of
love breathes heaven-born melody, that lingers
in the bosom when bereft of all other enjoyment
and causes the heart strings to vibrate with joy
even at the door of the tomb. When the snows
of age shall settle upon us, and life's landscape
looks sad and dreary--when the songs of mirth
and jollity have ceased to please-the recollection of love's early music will awaken such
pleasing echoes in our bosoms as shall oft cause
us to forget that we are old and are not able to
properly appreciate what we so lavishly admire.
Though the winter of our existence shall have
set in upon us, and the trees of our youth shall
have been stripped of their verdure. the leaves of
love will start forth anew in the warm sun of
memory; and they will flourish for a short time as
fresh and fair as though they were not soon, soon
to be destroyed by the frosts of forgetfulness.
Ar
hoaron
eck not for fame.
(ta ecroll
will be burnt to ashes. when the dust of your bodies shall mingle with its original dust; but seek
for love-for that abideth forever. When this
world of ours shall be shipwrecked upon the unknown shores of eternity--when combustion
shall take place, and all things perish amid the
sinful wreck of matter--Love, immortal Love,
shall Phoenix like rise from her own ashes and
wing her away to those realms of glory, where
Honor has no seat--where Fame is stript of her
laurels--and where the steam of Ambition is
blown off forever. Look for the rose of love.
my friends, in the garden of virtue. Pluck it-
plant it in your bosoms-water it with the tears
of affection:-and it will never fade. Its perfume
will never be exhausted--its leaves will never
fall- and not a petal will wither. It will continue in deathless bloom through the countless ages
of eternity, in a better sphere than this: that is to
say if it is never exposed to the storms of neglect,
or wilted before the burning blaze of dissipation.
So mote it be!