"For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still.

"And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

"And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

"And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!"

There is no other way except that of minute description to awaken the deep sympathies of the human heart. This is one reason of the deadness and indifference of the public mind to the condition and sufferings of numerous classes at our very doors. It is because they are dumb. Ignorance and poverty have kept them mute, and hindered them from sending up a voice into the literature of the world. It was thus with that

most interesting but neglected class of our fellow creatures, the seamen, until their condition begun to be described by one of themselves, whom nature had made a poet and piety made a preacher. I refer to the Rev. Edward Taylor of Boston. It is while listening to him, or reading such a book as that lately put forth by the author of Two Years Before the Mast, that the busy multitude on land learn to realize the fact, that human hearts beat in the forecastle as well as the senatehouse, and the saloon; that those who go down into the sea in ships and see God's wonders in the deep, though assimilated in manners and exterior to the rough elements which they encounter, are by no means destitute of the finest susceptibilities of our nature. It is in this way, I have not the least doubt, that literature is at length to be made the instrument of awakening a powerful interest in behalf of the poor sailor in the hearts of those who are able to meliorate his condition, and by elevating his character be the means of redeeming him from the cowardly and petty tyranny to which he is now subjected. Nay, there will be a literature for the sailors themselves, so that their monotonous and isolated

life shall be refreshed and gladdened by the pleasures of knowledge, of thought and imagination.

It

It is to this strong sympathy with human nature that many of the most exquisite passages of poetry owe their interest, which appear at first sight to be merely descriptive. is this, which makes so thrilling Byron's description of the night before the battle of Waterloo.

"There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd 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 look'd 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; 't was 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 feetBut, 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 Blush'd 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 could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise? "And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;. While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips-The foe! They come! they come!'

"And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,―alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valor, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and

low.

"Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent!"

There is in man an innate and inextinguishable love of nature. There is a nice adaptation of nature to the soul, and of the soul to nature. There is in the soul an exquisite sensibility to what is beautiful and sublime in the material universe. It sheds upon us a thousand nameless influences when we are least aware. They are ever streaming in upon the soul through the windows of the senses, and sometimes pour in such a flood of delight, that the fountains of joy overflow within us. From our earliest years there is a deep pleasure in looking upon this magnificent world. The opening of the spring, the singing of birds, the flowers of summer, the blushes of the morning, a calm bright day, the pillared thundercloud, the farewell rays of the setting