sures of this world of God, were taken from him. Some slight lucid moments he had, in one of which the queen-desiring to see him-entered the room and found him singing a hymn and accompanying himself on the harpsichord; when finished, he kneeled down and prayed aloud for her and for his family, and then for the nation-concluding with a prayer for himself that God would avert his heavy calamity from him; but if not, that he would give him resignation to submit to it. He then burst into tears, and his reason again, fled. What preacher need moralise on this story? What words, save the simplest, are requisite to tell it? It is too terrible for tears. The thought of such misery smites us down in submission before the Ruler of Kings and men-the Monarch Supreme over empires and republics, the inscrutable Dispenser of Life, death, happiness, victory. Oh! brothers, (I said to those who heard me in America)-Oh! brothers, speaking the same dear mother-tongue-Oh! comrades, enemies no more, let us take a mournful hand together as we stand by this royal corpse, and call a truce to battle. Low he lies to whom the proudest used to kneel once, and who was cast lower than the poorest; he whom millions prayed over in vain. Driven off his throne, buffetted by rude hands, with his children in revolt, the darling of his old age killed before him, old Lear hangs over her breathless lips, and calls'Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little.'

Vex not his ghost. O! let him pass. He hates him

That would, upon the rack of this rough world,

Stretch him out longer.

Hush, strife and quarrel, over the solemn grave! Sound, trumpets, a mournful march! Fall, dark curtain, upon his pageant, his pride, his griefs, his awful tragedy!

Newspaper notice of Thackeray's Lectures on the Georges.

MARCO BOZZARIS.*

At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece-her knee in supliance bent-
Should tremble at its power;

In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard-
Then wore his monarch's signet ring,-
Then press'd that monarch's throne-a king;
As wild his thoughts and gay of wing

As Eden's Garden's bird.

* Killed in 1823, fighting heroically for the liberty of Greece.

An hour passed on-the Turk awoke :
That bright dream was his last.

He woke, to hear his sentry shriek,

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke to die midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast,
As lightnings from the mountain's cloud;
And heard, with voice, as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheered his band.

"Strike-till the last arm'd foe expires,
Strike-for your altars and your fires,
Strike-for the green graves of your sires,
God and your native land."

They fought like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
They conquer'd, but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein;

His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;

They saw in death his eyelids close

Calmly as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.-HALLECK.

ON THE ABOLITION OF SLAVERY.*

Proudly on Cressy's tented wold
The lion-flag of England flew;
As proudly gleam'd its crimson fold
O'er the dun heights of Waterloo :
But other lyres shall greet the brave;
Sing now, that we have freed the slave.

The ocean plain, where Nelson bled,

Fair commerce plies with peaceful oar;
Duteous o'er Britain's clime to shed

The gathered spoils of every shore:
To-day, across th' Atlantic sea,
Shout-shout ye, that the slave is free.

And eloquence in rushing streams

Has flow'd our halls and courts along,

Or kindled 'mid yet loftier dreams
The glowing bursts of glorious song.
Let both their noblest burden pour,
To tell that slavery is no more.

* In 1834.

Bright science through each field of space
Has urged her mist-dispelling car,
Coy nature's hidden reign to trace,

To weigh each wind, and count each star:
Yet stay, thou proud philosophy,
First stoop to bid mankind be free.

And freedom has been long our own,
With all her soft and generous train,
To gild the lustre of the throne,

And guard the labour of the plain :
Ye heirs of ancient Runnymede!

Your slaves-oh! could it be?-are freed.
'Mid the drear haunts of force and strife,
The ministers of peace shall stand,
And pour the welling words of life

Around a parched and thirsty land;
While, spread beneath the tamarind tree,
Rise "happy homes, and altars free."

Ye isles, that court the tropic rays,
Cluster'd on ocean's sapphire breast;
Ye feathery bowers, ye fairy bays,

In more than fable now" the blest:"
Waft on each gale your choral strain,
Till ev'ry land has rent the chain.

O England, empire's home and head,
First in each art of peace and pow'r,
Mighty the billow crest to tread,

Mighty to rule the battle hour,—
But mightiest to relieve and save,
Rejoice, that thou hast freed the slave.

EARL OF CARLISLE.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
AT BALAKLAVA.*

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward!

All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred !

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred;

For up came an order which
Some one had blundered.

* In 1854.

"Forward the Light Brigade!
Take the guns," Nolan said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade,"
No man was there dismayed;
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die;
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,
Volleyed and thundered:
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode, and well,
Into the jaws of death-
Into the mouth of hell-
Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed all at once in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there;
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered;
Plunged in the battery smoke,
With many a desperate stroke,
The Russian line they broke,
Then they rode back, but not-
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them,

Volleyed and thundered.

Stormed at with shot and shell
While horse and hero fell;
Those that had fought so well
Came from the jaws of death,
Back from the mouth of hell
All that was left of them-
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred.-TENNYSON.

F

A TRUE SISTER OF MERCY.

Miss Nightingale is one of those whom God forms for great ends. You cannot hear her say a few sentences-no, not even look at her, without feeling that she is an extraordinary being. Simple, intellectual, sweet, full of love and benevolence, innocent-she is a fascinating and perfect woman. She is tall and pale. Her face is exceedingly lovely; but better than all, is the soul's glory that shines through every feature so exultingly. Nothing can be sweeter than her smile. It is like a sunny day in summer; and more of holiness than is expressed in her countenance one does not often meet on a human face as one passes along the dusty highways of life. Through all her movements breathes that high intellectual calm which is God's own patent of nobility, and is the true seal of the most glorious aristocracy-that of mind-of soul!

SANTA FILOMENA.*

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.

The tidal waves of deeper souls,
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares

Out of all meaner cares.

Honour to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow,

Raise us from what is low.

Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the Dead;
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp.

The wounded from the battle plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain—
The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery

A lady with a lamp, I see

Pass through the glimmering gloom,
And flit from room to room.

*Santa Filomena, St. Philomel, "St. Nightingale."