Bid him employ his care for these my friends,
And make good use of his ill-gotten power,
By shelt'ring men much better than himself.
Dec. Your high unconquered heart makes you
forget

You are a man.

But I have done.

You rush on your destruction.
When I relate hereafter

The tale of this unhappy embassy,

All Rome will be in tears.

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

Addison.

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 rose 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,

And kindled a fire.

Oh! surely, the light
Never revealed a sadder sight

Than greeted my eyes that winter night.
Walls damp and broken, a window bare,
A rickety table, a bottomless chair,
A floor discolored by soil and stain,
Snow driving in through the window pane.
Wee womanly Katie, scarce nine years old,
Pinched and shrunken from hunger and cold,
Sweet baby Johnnie, with dimpled feet,
Crying and pleading for something to eat,
A tattered bed, where the eye could trace
A human form, with a sad white face,
A sad white face, that had once been fair,
Framed in a tangle of light brown hair;
The sad eyes closed, the lips apart,
Small white hands crossed on a quiet heart.

Softly Katie approached her now,

And pressed a kiss on that marble brow,
Then with a smothered cry she said:
“Johnnie, oh! Johnnie, mamma is dead!"
Speak to me, mamma, one word!" she cried,
"O speak to your Katie!" No voice replied.

But Johnnie crept to the quiet breast
Where the golden head was wont to rest,
And nestling close to the icy form,

Said,

But the mother, outworn in the struggle and

strife

Of the madness and toil of the battle of life,

Had silently gone to that beautiful shore Where the rich hath need of their gold no

more.

THE FEMALE MARTYR.

"BRING out your dead!" The midnight street Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call; Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet,

Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet,

Her coffin and her pall.

"What-only one!" the brutal hack-man said, As with an oath he spurned away the dead.

How sunk the inmost hearts of all,
As rolled that dead-cart slowly by,
With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall!
The dying turned him to the wall,

To hear it and to die!

Onward it rolled; while oft its driver stayed, And hoarsely clamored, "Ho! bring out your dead."

It paused beside the burial-place;
"Toss in your load!"—and it was done.
With quick hand and averted face,
Hastily to the grave's embrace

They cast them, one by one,

Stranger and friend, the evil and the just,
Together trodden in the churchyard dust!

And thou, young martyr! thou wast there;
No white-robed sisters round thee trod,
Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer
Rose through the damp and noisome air
Giving thee to thy God;

Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gave
Grace to the dead, and beauty to the grave!

Yet, gentle sufferer! there shall be,

In every heart of kindly feeling, A rite as holy paid to thee

As if beneath the convent-tree

Thy sisterhood were kneeling,

At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping.

For thou wast one in whom the light

Of Heaven's own love was kindled well;
Enduring with a martyr's might,
Through weary day and wakeful night,
Far more than words may tell:

Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and unknown,
Thy mercies measured by thy God alone!

Where manly hearts were failing, where
The throngful street grew foul with death,
O high-souled martyr! thou wast there,
Inhaling, from the loathsome air,

Poison with every breath,

Yet shrinking not from offices of dread
For the wrung dying, and the unconscious dead.

And, where the sickly taper shed

Its light through vapors, damp, confined, Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread,

A new Electra by the bed

Of suffering human-kind!

Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay,
To that pure hope which fadeth not away.

Innocent teacher of the high

And holy mysteries of Heaven! How turned to thee each glazing eye, In mute and awful sympathy,

As thy low prayers were given;

And the o'er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while, An angel's features, a deliverer's smile!

A blessed task! and worthy one

Who, turning from the world, as thou,
Before life's pathway had begun

To leave its spring-time flowers and sun,
Had sealed her early vow;

Giving to God her beauty and her youth,
Her pure affections and her guileless truth.

Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here
Could be for thee a meet reward;

Thine is a treasure far more dear:

Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear
Of living mortal heard,

The joys prepared, the promised bliss above,
The holy presence of Eternal Love!