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THE ANGEL IN CAMP.

“ MORE LIGHT." FROM old St. Paul till now,

“MORE light! more light!” when sunset hues Of honorable women not a few

are steeping Have left their golden ease in love to do

All heaven and earth in waves of living light, The saintly work that Christlike hearts pursue. And Silence o'er creation calmly creeping,

With lifted fingers whispers her good-night. And such an one art thou, God's fair apostle, Bearing his love in war's horrible train ;

“ More light! more light!” when dawn's soft Thy blessed feet follow his ghastly pain,

golden tresses, And misery, and death, without disdain.

Blown through the sky, proclaim the vigil o'er, And rosy, to the zephyr's sweet caresses,

Aurora smiles through Heaven's half-opened To one borne from the sullen battle's roar;

door. Dearer the greeting of thy gentle eyes, When he aweary, torn, and bleeding, lies, “ More light! more light!” when doubt with Than all the glory that the victors prize.

iron fingers,

Has fastened on the ardent living soul. When peace shall come, and homes shall smile " More light!” to cheer the heart where love yet again,

lingers, A thousand soldier-hearts in Northern climes And point the way that faith may find the goal. Shall tell their little children with their rhymes, Of the sweet saint who blessed the old war-times.

“ More light!” when from the rugged road of

duty, The tempter with his lures would lead astray, “More light!” to sweep the mask of joy and

beauty THE HERO'S MOTHER.

From promises which wile but to betray. WITH what quick thronging hopes, what wishes “ More light!” when from the heart the hope wild,

most cherished The mother, gazing on her first-born son, Goes out in deepest darkness and despair. Dreams of a glorious future for her child; “More light!” to live when life's desire has A goal of triumph for the race begun!

perished,

And Heaven seems to close against our prayer. The world's new saviour lies in quite sleep, Clasped to a heart that knows no fear or care;

“More light!” upon the page so full of wonder,

Which God's great gracious love to man has Upward those little feet their way shall keep, Nor sin nor sorrow taint the mountain air.

given; That through the veil which Christ has rent

asunder O weeping mother of that Island home!

The light may stream to show the path to That home so beautiful, so desolate!

Heaven. All that thou could'st have dreamed or prayed is come;

“ More light!” for dying eyes when sunlight All that thou could’st have asked is given by

fails them, fate.

And all creation quivers to the sight,

“ More light!”-0 God! Thy light alone avails Would'st thou the hero's crown, the martyr's

them, palm?

And Thou wilt give it, for Thou art the Light. The saintly aureole, love's myrtle wreath ?

-Temple Bar. All rest with that brave hand, that brow, whose

calm Told of the steadfast faith that dwelt beneath.

THE CRIMSON TREE.

I PASSED through the woods one Autumn day, He sleeps with those he loved and died to save ! And watched the flashing glory

O land of youthful heroes! hast thou known Of oak and walnut and maple and fir, A purer sacrifice ? a nobler grave?

And heeded their saddening story. À heart more singly true, or more thine own? The sermon they preached was searching and

deep, Ah, not in vain thy children die for thee!

But the beauty of their strain,
Youth, beauty, genius in the gulf are cast, The glittering hues on the mountain steep,
That yawns before the footsteps of the free; Hushed the troubled thoughts again.
And the best sacrifice is still the last.

Picture worthy of artist divine,

Where splendor heaped on splendor, O mother of the soldier of the cross!

Where lightness with dark, where sombre with Weep not with bitter tears thy fallen son;

gay, Let faith and hope shed radiance on thy loss, Where rocks and leafage tender, And wait the Future that his blood has won. Where blue and green, and golden. and brown,

New York Tribune. Melt into an artist's dream.

And this pictured temple, myriad bued,

MEXICO AND MUNROE.
Reared on the faded sod,
Made me inwardly murmur, in accents subdued, An Emperor of Mexico!
“Its Builder and Maker is God."

Jerusalem! Now here's a go.
As I looked, I saw the color of blood,

Oh, ho! Napoleon's toe, One tree with crimson dye

Darned if he han't kicked down Munroe. Reached upward above the colored flood,

An Emperor, etc.
And touched the gentle sky.
Yet 'twas a hue from God's own hand,

With mouths of fire, whilst, North and South, His touch had set it there,

We stands a blazen, mouth to mouth, Who could never impose on himself command,

That Cuss out there, he bones the prey; To mar a dream so fair.

Takes Mexico right slick away.

An Emperor, etc.
And so when I look on another scene,
The blessings of Home and Land,

Now what on airth we are to du
The flashing, golden, myriad tints,

In this here fix, I wish I knew, The splendors on every hand,

'Cause why, we're dealing with a hand And see the solemn crimson of blood,

That won't no sort of nonsense stand.
It blends with the flashing glory,
And God's own pencil throws a flood

An Emperor, etc.
Of light on the saddening story,
And though we sometimes sit and weep

Them French, as fights for an idee,
At crimsoned waters flowing,

Ain't got much scruples more than we
At the crimsoned leaves on the mountain side, Of plungin into all-fired strife;
At the crimson sod slow growing,

Don't much more valley human life.
Yet this blending of tints, this sombre with gay,

An Emperor, etc.
Reveals the hand of the Lord,
And we gladly, and yet all solemnly say,

Bloodshed they no ways don't abhor;
Its Maker and Builder is God.

You han't to kick them into war.
-Springfield Republicam

But shake your fist, that will suffice;
They won't let you insult 'em twice.

An Emperor, etc.
JESSIES SONG.

John Ball he'll stand 'most any sarse;
WHEN the dimpled water slippeth,

You can't provoke his dander, scarce Full of laughter on its way,

Old fool, so bent on actin right, And her wing the wagtail dippeth,

Till you quite kick him he wont fight. Running by the brink at play;

An Emperor, etc. When the poplar leaves atremble

Turn their edges to the light, And the far up clouds resemble

So then, as Mexico 's gone goose, Veins of gaze most clear and white;

And wakin snakes it ain't no use, And the sunbeams fall and flatter,

Agin old Bull let's vengeance vow, Woodland moss and branches crown,

And take no action else jest now. And the glossy finches chatter

An Emperor, ato. Up and down, up and down :

-Punch Having music of her own,

On the grass through meadows wending, It is sweet to walk alone.

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VARIETY.

LINES BY A YOUNG LADY.

When the falling waters utter

Something mournful on their way, And departing swallows flutter,

Taking leave of bank and brea; When the chaffinch idly sitteth

With her mate upon the sheaves,
And the wistful robbin flitteth

Over beds of yellow leaves;
When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder

Evil fate float by and frown,
And the listless wind doth wander

Up and down, up and down:
Though the heart be not attending

Having sorrows of her own,
Through the fields and fallows wendin,
It is sad to walk alone.

JEAN INGELOW.

WHEN I regard that plumage gay,

By Nature's bounty all conferred,
I often feel disposed to say

Would I were clothed as yonder bird !
But oh, that moulting! To appear

In dishabille until 'twas o’er,
To get a dress but once a year,

And wear one fashion evermore !
When I consider all those things,

I check the wish that seems absurd,
And sigh no more for golden wings :
I'd not be clothed like yonder bird.

-Punch.

No. 1010.-10 October, 1863.

CONTENTS:

PAGE 1. Heinrich Heine,

Cornhill Magazine,

51 2. The King of Dahomey at Home,

Saturday Review,

63 3. Bathing Abroad and at Home,

67 4. Marie Antoinette's Necklace,

Spectator,

70 5. Annexations,

Saturday Review,

73 6. Since 1848,

Reader,

77 7. England's Neutrality,

Punch,

81 8. A French Eton,

Macmillan's Magazine,

83 9. Lairds' Iron Rams,

Spectator,

91 10. Mr. Church's Picture of Icebergs,

Reader,

94 11. The Late William Mulready,

95 POETRY.—The Soldier's Grief, 50. The Widowed Sword, 50. September, 96. Ruined, 96. Via Solitaria, 96.

Short ARTICLES.—Literary Intelligence, 62, 69, 72, 80, 82, 93. Life in the Atmosphere, 69. All the Books published in America, 69. Books on the American War, 72. Old Opinions on Slavery, 72. Burke on Secession, Democrats, and Federalists, 80. Gangrene, 82. Westminster Clock, 93. Petroleum Gas, 93. Electric Light, 93.

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THE SOLDIER'S GRIEF.

Where the happy lambs are bounding

O’er the aged, knotty roots ; “ How is grown my little lady?. 'Tis a soldier from the wars,

“ Where the thistle sheds the silver Bearing honors on his bosom,

Of its tresses on the air, And the marks of battle-scars

And the bramble gives a shelter “ Daughter of my worthy master,

To the weary-footed hare ;-
Whom I left four years ago,
When I went to join my army

“ There the lovely little maiden,

As you knew her, is at rest ; In the smiting of the foe ?

For the cruel Death, last summer, “ Makes she still the daylight brighter,

Laid his hand upon her breast.” As she bounds along the lawn,

-Household Words. With the laughter of the joy-bells,

And the motion of the fawn?

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All so noble, so true-how they stood, how they fell

In the battle, the plague, and the cold ;
Oh, as bravely and well as e’er story could tell
Of the flowers of the heroes of old.

Like a sword through the foe

Was that fearful attack,
That, so bright ere the blow,

Comes so bloodily back ;
And, foremost among them his colors he bore
And here is the sword that my brave boy wore.

Not remembering the tear-drops

That were standing in her eyes, When she decked my gun with ribbons,

Whispering the fast good-byes. “() my gossip, tell me quickly,

Shall I find her still the same, Setting roughest things to music,

When she speaks my humble name?” “ Soldier, simple-hearted soldier,

Home returned from the wars, I must give the wounding deeper

Than thy many battle-scars. “ Yonder, where the sun is making

Folding shadows round the trees ; Yonder, where the grass is growing

Damp and tangled under these ; “ Yonder, where the frightened woodquest

In among the branches shoots;

It was kind of his comrades, ye know not how

kind ;
It is more than the Indies to me ;
Ye know not how kind and how steadfast of mind
The soldier to sorrow can be.

They knew well how lonely

How grievously wrung,
Is the heart that its only

Love loses so young ;
And they closed his dark eye when the battle was

o'er,
And sent his old father the sword that he wore.

fame;

From The Cornhill Magazine. inence. These writers, and others with aims HEINRICH HEINE.

and a general tendency the same as theire, “ I KNOW not if I deserve that a laurel- are not the real inheritors and continuators wreath should one day be laid on my coffin. of Goethe's power; the current of their acPoetry, dearly as I have loved it, has always tivity is not the main current of German been to me but a divine plaything. I have literature after Goethe. Far more in Heine's never attached any great value to poetical works flows this main current; Heine, far

and I trouble myself very little more than Tieck or Jean Paul Richter, is whether people praise my verses or blame the continuator of that which, in Goethe's them. But lay on my coffin a sword: for I varied activity, is the most powerful and was a brave soldier in the war of liberation vital; on Heine, of all German authors who of humanity.”

survived Goethe, incomparably the largest Heine had his full share of love of fame, portion of Goethe's mantle fell. I do not and eared quite as much as his brethren of forget that when Mr. Carlye was dealing the genus irritabile whether people praised with German literature, Heine, though he his verses or blamed them. And he was very was clearly risen above the horizon, had not little of a hero. Posterity will certainly dec- shone forth with all his strength; I do not orate his tomb with the emblem of the lau- forget, too, that after ten or twenty years rel rather than with the emblem of the sword. many things may come out plain before the Still, for his contemporaries, for us, for the critic which before were hard to be discerned Europe of the present century, he is signifi- by him; and assuredly no one would dream cant chiefly for the reason which he himself of imputing it as a fault to Mr. Carlyle that in the words just quoted assigns. He is sig- twenty years ago he mistook the central curnificant because he was, if not pre-eininently rent in German literature, overlooked the a brave, yet a brilliant, a most effective sol- rising Heine, and attached undue importance dier in the war of liberation of humanity. to that romantic school which Heine was to

To ascertain the master current in the lit- destroy ; one may rather note it as a misforerature of an epoch, and to distinguish this tune, sent perhaps as a delicate chastisement from all minor currents, is the critic's high- to a critic, who— man of genius as he is, and est function ; in discharging it he shows no one recognizes his genius more admiringly how far he possesses the most indispensable than I do — has, for the functions of the quality of his office — justness of spirit. The critic, a little too much of the self-will and living writer who has done most to make eccentricity of a genuine son of Great BritEngland acquainted with German authors, a ain. man of genius, but to whom precisely this Hleine is noteworthy, because he is the one quality of justness of spirit is perhaps most important German successor and conwanting, -I mean Mr. Carlyle,-seems to tinuator of Goethe in Goethe's most imme in the result of his labors on German lit- portant line of activity. And which of erature to afford a proof how very necessary Goethe's lines of activity is this? His line to the critic this quality is. Mr. Carlyle of activity as “ a soldier in the war of liberhas spoken admirably of Goethe ; but then ation of humanity." Goethe stands before all men's eyes, the man Heine himself would hardly have admitted ifest centre of German literature: and from this affiliation, though he was far too powerthis central source many rivers flow. Which ful-minded a man to decry, with some of the of these rivers is the main stream ? which of vulgar German liberals, Goethe’s genius. the courses of spirit which we see active in “ The wind of the Paris Revolution," he Goethe is the course which will most influ- writes after the three days of 1830, “ blew ence the future, and attract and be continued about the candles a little in the dark night by the most powerful of Goethe's successors ? of Germany, so that the red curtains of a

- that is the question. Mr. Carlyle at- German throne or two caught fire ; but the taches, it seems to me, far too much impor- old watchmen, who do the police of the Gertance to the romantic school of Germany man kingdoms, are already bringing out the Tieck, Novalis, Jean Paul Richter, - and fire-engines, and will keep the candles closer gives to these writers, really gifted as two, snuffed for the future. Poor, fast-bound at any rate, of them are, an undue prom- | German people, lose not all heart in thy

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