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“Where is that Charmer whom thou bid'st us seek?

On what far shores may his sweet voice be heard? When shall these questions of our yearning souls

Be answered by the bright eternal word ?" So spake the youth of Athens, weeping round,

When Socrates lay calmly down to die; So spake the sage, prophetic of the hour

When earth's fair Morning Star should rise on high.' They found him not, those youths of soul divine,

Long seeking, wandering, watching on life's shoreReasoning, aspiring, yearning for the light, Death came and

found them-doubting as before. But years passed on; and lo! the Charmer came

Pure, simple, sweet, as comes the silver dew;
And the world knew him not-he walked alone,

Encircled only by his trusting few.
Like the Athenian sage rejected, scorned,

Betrayed, condemned, his day of doom drew nigh; He drew his faithful few more closely round,

And told them that his hour was come to die. “Let not your heart be troubled," then he said;

“My Father's house hath mansions large and fair; I go before you to prepare your place;

I will return to take you with me there." And since that hour the awful foe is charmed,

And life and death are glorified and fair. Whither he went we know—the way we know

And with firm step press on to meet him there.


SAMUEL WOODWORTH. How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,

And every loved spot that my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;

The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well: The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket, that hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure;

For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.

How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,

And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell !
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips !
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,

The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,

The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well :
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket, that hangs in the well.



EDWARD HITCHCOCK. I am far from maintaining that science is a sufficient guide in religion. On the other hand, if left to itself, as I fully admit,

It leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind. Nor do I maintain that scientific truth, even when properly appreciated, will compare at all, in its influence upon the human mind, with those peculiar and higher truths disclosed by Revelation. All I contend for is, that scientific truth, illustrating as it does the Divine character, plans and government, ought to fan and feed the flame of true piety in the heart of its cultivators. He, therefore, who knows the most of science, ought most powerfully to feel this religious influence. He is not confined, like the great mass of men, to the outer court of Nature's magnificent temple; but he is admitted to the interior, and allowed to trace its long halls, aisles and galleries, and gaze upon its lofty domes and arches; nay, as a priest, he enters the penetralia, the holy of holies, where sacred fire is always burning upon the altars; where hovers the glorious Shekinah; and where, from a full orchestra, the anthem of praise is ever ascending. Petrified, indeed, must be his heart, if it catches none of the inspiration of such a spot. He ought to go forth from it among his fellow-men, with radiant glory on his face, like Moses from the holy mount. He who sees most of God in His works ought to show the stamp of Divinity upon his character, and lead an eminently holy life.

Yet it is only a few gifted and adventurous minds that are able, from some advanced mountain-top, to catch a glimpse of the entire stream of truth, formed by the harmonious union of all principles, and flowing on majestically into the boundless ocean of all knowledge, the Infinite Mind. But when the Christian philosopher shall be permitted to resume the study of science in a future world, with powers of investigation enlarged and clarified, and all obstacles removed, he will be able to trace onward the various ramifications of truth, till they unite into higher and higher principles, and become one in that centre of centres, the Divine Mind. That is the ocean from which all truth originally sprang, and to which it ultimately returns. To trace out the shores of that shoreless Sea, to measure its measureless extent, and to fathom its unfathomable depths, will be the noble and the joyous work of eternal ages. And yet eternal ages may pass by, and see the work only begun!



Recall to your recollection the free nations which have gone before us. Where are they now?

Gone glimmering through the mist of things that were,

A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour. And how lost they their liberties? If we could transport ourselves to the ages when Greece and Rome flourished in their greatest prosperity, and mingling in the throng should ask a Grecian if he did not fear that some daring military chieftain covered with glory—some Philip or Alexander-would one day overthrow the liberties of his country, the confident and indignant Grecian would exclaim: “No! no! we have nothing to fear from our heroes; our liberties will be eternal.” If a Roman citizen had been asked if he did not fear that the conqueror of Gaul might establish a throne upon the ruins of public liberty, he would have instantly repelled the unjust insinuation. Yet Greece fell; and Cæsar passed the Rubicon.

We are fighting a great moral battle, for the benefit not only of our country but of all mankind. The eyes of the whole world are in fixed attention upon us. One, and the largest, portion of it is gazing with contempt, with jealousy, and with envy; the other portion, with hope, with confidence, and with affection. Everywhere the black cloud of Legitimacy is sous

pended over the world, save only one bright spot, which breaks out from the political hemisphere of the West, to enlighten, and animate, and gladden the human heart.

Observe that, by the downfall of liberty here, all mankind are enshrouded in a pall of universal darkness. To us belongs the high privilege of transmitting, unimpaired, to posterity, the fair character, the liberty of our country. Do we expect to execute this high trust by trampling down the law, justice, the Constitution, and the rights of the people? by exhibiting examples of inhumanity, and cruelty, and ambition? Let us beware, then, how we give our fatal sanction to military insubordination. Greece had her Alexander, Rome her Cæsar, England her Cromwell, France her Bonaparte, and we must avoid the mistakes which these nations made, if we would escape the rock on which they met their doom.

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“Corporal Green!" the Orderly cried;
“Here!" was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of the soldier who stood near---
And “Here!" was the word the next replied.
“Cyrus Drew!"—then a silence fell---

This time no answer followed the call;

Only his rear man had seen him fall,
Killed or wounded, he could not tell.
There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,

As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.
The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn where the poppies grew

Were redder stains than the poppies knew ;
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.
For the foe had crossed from the other side

That day, in the face of a murderous fire

That swept them down in its terrible ire; And their life-blood went to color the tide. “Herbert Kline!" At the call there came

Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

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“Ezra Kerr!”—and a voice answered, “Here!" “ Hiram Kerr !"_but no man replied,

They were brothers, these two ; the sad winds sighed,
And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.
Ephraim Deane!"—then a soldier spoke:

Deane carried our Regiment's colors,” he said;
“Where our Ensign was shot, I left him dead,
Just after the enemy wavered and broke.
Close to the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him drink;

He murmured his mother's name, I think, And Death came with it and closed his eyes." 'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear

For that company's roll, when called at night,

Of a hundred men who went into the fight,
Numbered but twenty that answered, “Here!"




There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell.
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it ?-No! 'Twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined ;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But hark !—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Arm! arm ! it is—it is--the cannon's opening roar !

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who would guess

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