« PredošláPokračovať »
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 callsCordelia, Cordelia, stay a little.'
Vex not his ghost. 0! let him pass. He hates him
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.
At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
Should tremble at its power;
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 :
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,
God and your native land.”
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
Bleeding at every vein;
And the red field was won;
Like flowers at set of sun.-HALLECK.
ON THE ABOLITION OF SLAVERY.*
The lion-flag of England flew;
O'er the dun heights of Waterloo :
that we have freed the slave. The ocean plain, where Nelson bled,
Fair commerce plies with peaceful oar;
The gathered spoils of every shore:
Has flow'd our halls and courts along,
The glowing bursts of glorious song.
* In 1834.
Bright science through each field of space
Has urged her mist-dispelling car,
To weigh each wind, and count each star:
With all her soft and generous train,
And guard the labour of the plain :
The ministers of peace shall stand,
Around a parched and thirsty land;
Cluster'd on ocean's sapphire breast;
In more than fable now" the blest:"
First in each art of peace and pow'r,
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
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward !
Rode the six hundred !
Rode the six hundred;
Some one had blundered.
* In 1854.
Forward the Light Brigade !
Take the guns,” Nolan said :
Rode the six hundred.
Some one had blundered :
Rode the six hundred.
Volleyed and thundered:
Rode the six hundred.
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.
Left of six hundred.
All the world wondered.
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,
Our hearts in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.
And by their overflow,
Raise us from what is low.
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp.
The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.
Pass through the glimmering gloom,
* Santa Filomena, St. Philomel,“ St. Nightingale."