the ruins of Carthage, in the spirit of a gloomy seer, applied to Rome herself the prophecy of Agamemnon:

"The day shall come, the great avenging day,
Which Troy's proud glories in the dust shall lay;
When Priam's power, and Priam's self shall fall,
And one prodigious ruin swallow all."

FROM GRIMKE.

CXXXIV.-WAR FALSELY COLORED.

ON every side of me I see causes at work, which go to spread a most delusive coloring over war, and to remove its shocking barbarities to the background of our contemplations altogether. I see it in the history which tells me of the superb appearance of the troops, and the brilliancy of their successive charges. I see it in the poetry which lends the magic of its numbers to the narrative of blood, and transports its many admirers, as by its images, and its figures, and its nodding plumes of chivalry, it throws its treacherous embellishments over a scene of legalized slaugh

ter.

I see it in the music which represents the progress of the battle; and where, after being inspired by the trumpetnotes of preparation, the whole beauty and tenderness of a drawing-room are seen to bend over the sentimental entertainment; nor do I hear the utterance of a single sigh to interrupt the death-tones of the thickening contest, and the moans of the wounded men, as they fade away upon the ear, and sink into lifeless silence.

All, all, goes to prove what strange and half-sighted creatures we are. Were it not so, war could never have been seen in any other aspect than that of unmingled hatefulness. I can look to nothing but to the progress of Christian sentiment upon earth to arrest the strong current of the popular and prevailing partiality for war. Then only will an imperious sense of duty lay the check of severe principle on all the subordinate tastes and faculties of our nature.

Then will glory be reduced to its right estimate, and the

wakeful benevolence of the Gospel, chasing away every spell, will be turned by the treachery of no delusion whatever from its simple but sublime enterprises for the good of the species. Then the reign of truth and quietness will be ushered into the world, and war, cruel, atrocious, unrelenting war, will be stripped of its many and its bewildering fascinations. FROM CHALMERS.

CXXXV. THE DYING SOLDIER.

MORION; (pro. Mor'-i-on,) a helmet.

YATAGHAN; (pro. Yat-a-ghan,) a Turkish dagger.
CORSELET, a light breastplate.

THE shadows of evening are thickening. Twilight closes, and the thin mists are rising in the valley. The last charging squadron yet thunders in the distance; but it presses only on the foiled and scattered foe. The fight is over! And those who rode foremost in its field at morning, where are they now? On the bank of yon little stream, there lies a knight, his life-blood ebbing faster than its tide. His shield is rent and his lance is broken. Soldier, why faintest thou? The blood that swells from that deep wound will answer.

It was this morning that the sun rose bright upon his hopes; it sets upon his grave. This day he led the foremost rank of spears, that had crossed the foe's dark line; then death shouted in the onset ! It was the last blow that reached him. He has conquered, though he shall not triumph in the victory. His breastplate is dinted. His helmet has the traces of well-dealt blows. The scarf on his breast! she would shrink but to touch it now, who placed it there.

Look on yon crimsoned field that seems to mock the purple clouds above it! Prostrate they lie, drenched in their dark red pool; thy friends and enemies; the dead and dying; the veteran, with the stripling of a day; the nameless trooper and the leader of a hundred hosts. Friend lies by friend; the steed, with his rider; and foes,

linked in their long embrace-their first and last-the gripe of death. Far o'er the field they lie, a gorgeous prey to rain! White plume and steel morion! saber and yataghan! crescent and cross! rich vest and bright corslet! They came to the fight, as if they came to a feasting. Glorious and glittering, even in death, each shining warrior lies!

His last glance still seeks that banner! The cry, that shall never be repeated, cheers on its last charge. Oh, but for strength to reach the field once more! to die in the foe's front! Peace, dreamer! Thy place in the close rank is filled; and yet another waits for his who holds it. Soldier! she who sped thee on thy course to-day, shall seek thee, with her blue eyes, in the conquering ranks to-morrow; but she shall seek thee in vain! Proud heads shall bow for thee. Bright eyes shall weep for thee.

Heath thou wilt be the soldier's pillow! Moon, let thy cold light, this night, fall upon him! But, morning, thy soft dews shall tempt him not! The soldier must wake no more. He is dead! The cross of a knight is on his breast! his lips are pressed to his lady's token! Soldier, farewell!

CXXXVI.-WAR UNCHRISTIAN.

WHERE does Christianity sanction war? Is it in the angels' song at the birth of Christ, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will to men?" Is it in the benediction promised by our Divine Lord on the peacemakers? Is it in his command to love our enemies, and, when smitten on one cheek, to turn, without resistance or revenge, the other to the offender? Is it, in short, in the whole genius and spirit of Christianity? Is it not strange that Christianity should have been eighteen centuries delivering its lessons in our world, and that men should be so ignorant of its nature and duties, as to need to be told that it is hostile to the spirit of war?

It is this propensity to hostility, on the part of so many who profess Christianity, that has alienated so many from

it, and fostered the infidelity of the age.

How often are

we met with the taunt, that Christendom has been as deeply involved in this dreadful practice as the pagan and Mohammedan nations. We deplore the fact; but we deny that it is sanctioned by the New Testament. Tell us not of

the foul deeds that have been perpetrated in the name of Christianity. Tell us not, that her princes have been ambitious, and her priests, rapacious; that one has drawn the sword and unfurled the banner under the benediction of the other; and that both have met in the camp, the crusade, and the battlefield, covered with blood, and reveling in slaughter.

The question is not what her sacred name has been abused to sanctify; but has it been performed by her authority, has it accorded with her principles, and been congenial with her spirit? Shall those who have violated her maxims, set at defiance her commands, despised her remonstrances, and stifled her cries, shall they be allowed to plead her authority in justification of their doings? Not only Christianity herself, but common honesty says, No.

I know very well there are four millions of men under arms in Europe. I know also what a seemingly petty incident may call all those to deadly strife. It is quite possible, if not even probable, that a deadly struggle may impend. Still, the reign of peace is coming. Many a bright and beautiful day has been ushered in by a terrific. thunder-storm, and while the thunders were rolling, day was advancing behind the cloud that sent them forth. Let Europe be again involved in battle and bloodshed, still here, in this our congress, is the dawn of the day of peace.

Take courage, then, in carrying on your pacific schemes. Your children, or your children's children, may hear the last peals of war die away amid the shouts of universal peace. They may see the commencement of the millenial period of general brotherhood, when Christians, blushing over the crimes of former generations, shall hasten to hide the memorials of their shame, and upon the anvil of revelation shall, with the brawny arm of reason, "beat the swords into plowshares, and the spears into pruning hooks.”

CXXXVII.—PEACE.

THIS and the succeeding extract may be spoken separately, or as

one.

How beautiful is night! the balmiest sigh,

Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude

That wraps the moveless scene.

Heaven's ebon vault,

Studded with stars unutterably bright,

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which Love had spread,

To curtain her sleeping world.

Yon gentle hills,

Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;

Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend,

So stainless, that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it

A metaphor of peace; all form a scene,
Where musing solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness;
Where silence, undisturbed, might watch alone,
So cold, so bright, so still.

FROM SHELLEY.

CXXXVIII.—WAR.

Ан! whence yon glare

That fires the arch of heaven? That dark red smoke
Blotting the silver moon? The stars are quenched
In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow
Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round!
Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals
In countless echoes through the mountain ring,
Startling pale Midnight on her starry throne!

Now swells the intermingling din; the jar,
Frequent and frightful, of the bursting bomb;
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout,
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men,
Inebriate with rage: loud, and more loud

The discord grows; till pale death shuts the scene,