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, In dreams, through camp and court he bore In dreams, his song of triumph heard- As Eden's Garden's bird. * Killed in 1823, fighting heroically for the liberty of Greece. An hour passed on-the Turk awoke : 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, "Strike-till the last arm'd foe expires, They fought like brave men, long and well, His few surviving comrades saw 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 ocean plain, where Nelson bled, Fair commerce plies with peaceful oar; The gathered spoils of every shore: And eloquence in rushing streams Has flow'd our halls and courts along, Or kindled 'mid yet loftier dreams * In 1834. Bright science through each field of space To weigh each wind, and count each star: And freedom has been long our own, And guard the labour of the plain : Your slaves-oh! could it be?-are freed. Around a parched and thirsty land; Ye isles, that court the tropic rays, In more than fable now" the blest:" O England, empire's home and head, Mighty to rule the battle hour,— EARL OF CARLISLE. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward! All in the valley of Death Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred; For up came an order which * In 1854. "Forward the Light Brigade! "Forward the Light Brigade," Flashed all their sabres bare, All the world wondered; Cannon to right of them, Cannon behind them, Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell When can their glory fade? 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, The tidal waves of deeper souls, Out of all meaner cares. Honour to those whose words or deeds Raise us from what is low. Thus thought I, as by night I read The wounded from the battle plain, Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp, I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, *Santa Filomena, St. Philomel, "St. Nightingale." |