the mind becomes weak and inactive; for it must
needs happen, where a muddy and clogged body is shackled down by heavy
and unnatural nourishment, that all the vigour and brilliancy of the
understanding must be confused and made dull, and that, wanting
clearness for nobler things, it must ramble after little and unworthy
objects. The passions cannot fail to be excited, and thus the whole of
the irrational nature becoming fattened as it were, the soul is drawn
downward and abandons its proper love of true being. The truth of this
we must all more or less have experienced: we are never so lively when
we have dined, and the studious man knows well that the morning is the
more proper time for his employment.

Why then should we not liberate ourselves from such inconvenience, by
abandoning as far as we can a fleshy diet? and let us remember, that
even on the score of comfort, the pain of indigence is much milder than
that which is produced by repletion. We should thus free ourselves at
once from a heavy and somnolent condition of body, from many and
vehement diseases, from the want of medical assistance, from "the
crassitude of the corporeal bond," and above all, from that savage and
unnatural strength which incites to base actions, so as to escape an
Iliad of evils!

F.

* * * * *

MY FATHERLAND.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KORNER.

Where is the minstrel's Fatherland?
'Tis where the spirit warmest glows,
Where laurels bloom for noblest brows,
Where warlike hearts the truest vows
Swear, lit by friendship's holy brand;
There was once my Fatherland.

What calls the minstrel, Fatherland?
That land, which weeps beneath the yoke
Its slaughter'd sons, and foeman's stroke:
Land of the stern, unbending oak.
Land of the free, the German land,
That once I call'd my Fatherland.

Why weeps the minstrel's Fatherland?
It weeps before a tyrant's dread,
The valour of its monarch's fled;
At Deutchland's voice a people dead,
Despised, unheeded its command.
This, this weeps, my Fatherland.

Whom calls the minstrel's Fatherland?
It calls on spirits pale with wonder,
In desperation's words of thunder,
To rise and burst its chain asunder.
On retribution's vengeful hand,
On this calls my Fatherland.

What would the minstrel's Fatherland?
To blot out slav'ry's foul disgrace,
The bloodhou