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3. With such sharp pain as human hearts
May feel, the drooping thing departs
Unto the dark, wild wood;

And there, midst briers and sheltering weeds,
He hidèth his remorse, and feeds

No more on blood.

4. And in that weedy brake he lies,
And pines, and pines, until he dies;
And, when all's o'er,-

What follows?-Naught! his brothers slake
Their thirst in blood in that same brake,
Fierce as before!

5. So fable flows!-But would you find
Its moral wrought in human kind,

Its tale made worse;

Turn straight to Man, and in his fame


And forehead read "The Harpy's" 1 name;

But no remorse!


BRYAN WALTER PROCTER, better known by his assumed name of Barry Cornwall, is a graceful and accomplished writer, and a true poct. "If it be the province of poetry to give delight," says Lord Jeffery, "this author should rank very high among the poets." He is a genuine poet of love. There is an intense and passionate beauty, a depth of affection, in his little dramatic poems, which appear even in the affectionate triflings of his gentle characters. He is chiefly noted, however, as a song-writer. "The fair blosoms of his genius, though light and trembling as the breeze, spring from a wide, and deep, and robust stock, which will sustain far taller branches without being exhausted."




HE first great obstacle to the extinction of war, is the way in which the heart of man is carried off from its barbarities and its horrors by the splendor of its deceitful accompaniments. There is a feeling of the sublime in contem'plating the shock of armies, just as there is in contemplating the devouring energy of a tempèst; and this so elevates and engrosses the whole man,

'Hǎr' py, in antiquity, the harpies were fabulous winged monsters, ravenous and filthy, having the face of a woman and the body of a vulture, with their feet and fingers armed

with sharp claws. They were three in number, Aello, Ocypete, and Celeno. The name harpy is often applied to an extortioner, a plunderer, or ravenous animals.

that his eye is blind to the tears of bereaved parents, and his ear is deaf to the piteous moan of the dying, and the shriek of their desolated families.

2. There is a gracefulness in the picture of a youthful warrior, burning for distinction on the field, and lured by this generous aspiration to the deepest of the animated throng, where, in the fell work of death, the opposing sons of valor struggle for a remembrance and a name; and this side of the picture is so much the exclusive object of our regard, as to disguise from our view the mangled carcases of the fallen, and the writhing agonies of the hundreds and the hundreds more who have been laid on the cold ground, where they are left to languish and to die.

3. There no eye pities them. No sister is there to weep over them. There no gentle hand is present to ease the dying posture, or bind up the wounds which, in the maddening fury of the combat, have been given and received by the children of one common Father. There death spreads its pale ensigns over ĕvèry countenance, and when night comes on, and darkness around them, how many a despairing wretch must take up with the bloody field as the untended bed of his last sufferings, without one friend to bear the message of tenderness to his distant home, without one companion to close his eyes!

4. I avow it. On every side of me I see causes at work which go to spread a most delusive coloring over war, and to remove its shocking barbarities to the background of our contempla'tions altogether. I see it in the history, which tells me of the superb appearance of the troops, and the brilliancy of their successive charges. I see it in the poëtry, which lends the magic of its numbers to the narrative of blood, and transports its many admirers, as by its images, and its figures, and its nodding plumes of chivalry it throws its treacherous embellishments over a scene of legalized slaughter.

5. I see it in the music, which represents the progress of the battle; and where, after being inspired by the trumpet notes of preparation, the whole beauty and tenderness of a drawing-room are seen to bend over the sentimental entertainment : nor do I hear the utterance of a single sigh to interrupt the death-tones of the thickening contest, and the moans of the wounded men as they fade away upon the ear and sink into lifeless silence. All, all goes to prove what strange and half-sighted creatures we


Were it not so, war could never have been seen in any other aspect than that of unmingled hatefulness: and I can look to nothing but to the progress of Christian sentiment upon earth to arrest the strong current of its popular and prevailing partiality for war.

6. Then only will an imperious sense of duty lay the check of severe principle on all the subordinate tastes and faculties of our nature. Then will glory be reduced to its right estimate, and the wakeful benevolence of the Gospel, chasing away every spell, will be turned by the treachery of no delusion whatever from its sublime enterprises for the good of the species. Then the reign of truth and quietnèss will be ushered into the world, and war, cruel, atrocious, unrelenting war, will be stripped of its many and its bewildering fascinations.


THOMAS CHALMERS, D.D., LL.D., the celebrated pulpit orator and divine, was born on 17th March, 1780, at Anstruther, in Fifeshire, Scotland, of respectable and pious, though humble, parents. He was entered a student in St. Andrews College at the early age of twelve; and soon gave indications of that strong predilection for the physical sciences which he retained through life. He obtained license to preach in connection with the Established Church of Scotland, while only 19, on the express ground that he was "a lad of pregnant parts;" though, at that early age, he considered the functions of the sacred office to be subordinate to scientific pursuits. By long personal illness, and severe domestic bereavements, he was brought from making religion a secondary concern with him to regard it as a subject of paramount importance. In 1815 he took charge of the Tron Church and Parish, Glasgow, from which time his reputation continued to advance, until the sensation produced by his preaching surpassed all that was ever known or heard of in the annals of pulpit eloquence. In 1824 he became professor of moral philosophy in the University of St. Andrews; and in 1828 he was translated to the chair of divinity in the university at Edinburgh. Dr. Chalmers now commenced a career of authorship, by which he still further extended his reputation as a divine. The most flattering honors were now heaped upon him; for he was chosen President of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, created Doctor of Laws by the University of Oxford, and appointed corresponding member of the Royal Institute of France-a compliment which no clergyman in Britain had ever previously enjoyed. His collected works, including sermons, theological lectures, &c., amount to 25 volumes. Died May 30, 1847.





SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land;
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bing'en-at Bingen on the Rhine.


"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around

To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars: But some were young-and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!


"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage : For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to


On the cottage-wall at Bingen-calm Bingen on the Rhine!


"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gal

lant tread;

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die.
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and


For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine!


"There's another-not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning,

Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest


Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen
My body will be out of pain-my soul be out of prison),
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!


"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along-I heard, or seemed to hear The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk

Down many a path beloved of yōre, and well-remembered walk, And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine :

But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine!"


His voice grew faint and hoarser,-his grasp was childish weak,—
His eyes put on a dying look,-he sighed and ceased to speak:
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-
The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land-was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown;
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
As it shōne on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!


MRS. NORTON, Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Sheridan, was grand-daugter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. The family of Sheridan has been prolific of genius and she has well sustained the family honors. In her seventeenth year, this lady had composed her poem, "The Sorrows of Rosalie." She termed her next poem, founded on the ancient legend of the Wandering Jew, "The Undying One." Her third volume, entitled "The Dream, and other Poems," appeared in 1840. "This lady," says a writer in the Quarterly Review, "is the Byron of our modern poetesses. She has very much of that intense personal passion by which Byron's poetry is distinguished from the larger grasp and deeper communion with man and nature of Wordsworth. She has also Byron's beautiful intervals of tenderness, his strong practical thought, and his forceful expression. It is not an artificial imitation, but a natural parallel." She was married at the age of nineteen to the Hon. George Chapple Norton, brother to Lord Grantley, and himself a police magistrate in London. After being the object of suspicion and persecu tion of the most painful description, the union was dissolved in 1840.

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