God's sunlight is quenched in the fiery fight
Over the hosts falls a brooding night!
Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er,
In the life to come we may meet once more.

The dead men are bathed in the weltering blood
And the living are blent in the slippery flood,
And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go,
Stumble still on the corpse that sleeps below.
"What? Francis !-Give Charlotte my last farewell.'
As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell-
“I'll give-Oh God! are the guns so near?
Ho! comrades! yon volley! look sharp to the rear!
I'll give to thy Charlotte thy last farewell!
Sleep soft! where death thickest descendeth in rain,
The friend thou forsaketh thy side may regain!"
Hitherward; thitherward reels the fight;
Dark and more darkly day glooms into night.
Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er,
In the life to come that we meet once more!

Hark to the hoofs that galloping go!
The adjutants flying-

The horsemen press hard on the panting foe,
Their thunder booms in dying-

Victory!

Tremor has seized on the dastards all,

And their leaders fall!

Victory!

Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight;

And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night!
Trumpet and fife swelling choral along,

The triumph already sweeps marching in song.
Farewell, fallen brothers; though this life be o'er,
There's another, in which we shall meet you once more:
Translated from Schiller by Bulwer.

BOMBASTIC APPEAL TO A JURY.

GENTLEMEN of the Jury,-It is with feelings of no or dinary communion that I rise to defend my injured client from the attacks that have been made on his hithertofore unapproachable character. I feel, gentlemen, that though a good deal smarter than any of you, even the judge himself, yet I am utterly incompetent to present

this case in the magnanimous and heart-rending light which its importance demands; and I trust, gentlemen, that whatever I may lack in presenting the subject will be immediately made up by your own natural good sense and discernment, if you have got any.

The counsel for the prosecution, gentlemen, will undoubtedly attempt to heave dust in your eyes. He will tell you that his client is pre-eminently a man of function, -that he is a man of undoubted and implicable veracity, -that he is a man who would scorn to fotch an action against another merely to gratify his own personal corporosity; but, gentlemen, let me cautionate you how to rely upon such specious reasoning like this. I myself apprehend that this suit has been wilfully and maliciously focht, gentlemen, for the sole and only purpose of browbeating my client here, and in an eminent manner grinding the face of the poor; and I apprehend, also, that if you could but look into that man's heart, and read there the motives that have impelled him to fotch this suit, such a picture of moral turpentine and heart-felt ingratitude would be brought to light as has never before been exhibited since the falls of Niagara.

Now, gentlemen, I want to make a brilliant appeal to the kind symmetries of your nature, and see if I can't warp your judgments a little in favor of my unfortunate client here, and then I shall fotch my argument to a close. Here is a poor man, with a numerous wife and child, depending upon him for their daily bread and butter, wantonly foteht up here, and arranged before an intellectual jury on the charge of ignominiously hooking-yes, hooking-six quarts of new cider. You, gentlemen, have all been placed in similar situations, and "know how it is yourself" and you can therefore feel for the misfortunes of my client; and I humbly calculate that you will not permit the gushing of your symperthizing hearts to be squenched in the bud by the surruptions and superogating arguments of my ignorant opponent on the other side.

The law expressly declares, gentlemen, in the beautiful language of Shakespeare, that where no doubt exists of the guilt of the prisoner, it is your duty to lean upon the side of justice and fotch him in unblameworthy. If you keep this fact in view in the case of my client, gentlemen,

you will have the honor of making a friend of him and all his relations, and you can allers look upon this occasion, and reflect with pleasure that you did as you would be done by; but if, on the other hand, you disregard this great principle of law, and set at naught my eloquent remarks, and fotch him in guilty, the silent twitches of conscience will follow you over every fair corn-field, I reckon, and my injured and down-trodden client will be pretty apt to light on you some of these dark nights, as a gray cat lights on a sassar of new milk.

SEEDS.

WE are sowing, daily sowing,
Countless seeds of good and ill,
Scattered on the level lowland,
Cast upon the windy hill;

Seeds that sink in rich brown furrows,
Soft with Heaven's gracious rain;

Seeds that rest upon the surface
Of the dry, unyielding plain.

Seeds that fall amid the stillness
Of the lonely mountain glen;
Seeds cast out in crowded places,
Trodden under foot of men;
Seeds by idle hearts forgotten,
Flung at random on the air;
Seeds by faithful souls remembered,
Sown in tears and love and prayer.

Seeds that lie unchanged, unquickened,
Lifeless on the teeming mould;
Seeds that live and grow and flourish
When the sower's hand is cold:
By a whisper sow we blessings,
By a breath we scatter strife;
In our words and looks and actions
Lie the seeds of death and life.

Thou who knowest all our weakness,
Leave us not to sow alone!
Bid Thine angels guard the furrows
Where the precious grain is sown,

Till the fields are crowned with glory,
Filled with mellow ripened ears,
Filled with fruit of life eternal

From the seed we sowed in tears.

Check the froward thoughts and passions,
Stay the hasty, heedless hands;
Lest the germs of sin and sorrow
Mar our fair and pleasant lands.
Father, help each weak endeavor,
Make each faithful effort blest,
Till Thine harvest shall be garnered,
And we enter into rest.

ST. PIERRE TO FERRARDO.

St. Pierre, having possessed himself of Ferrardo's dagger, compels him to sign a confession of his villainy.

KNOW you me, duke? Know you the peasant boy,
Whom, fifteen years ago, in evil hour,

You chanced to cross upon his native hills—

In whose quick eye you saw the subtle spirit,
Which suited you, and tempted it? He took
Your hint, and followed you to Mantua

Without his father's knowledge-his old father,
Who, thinking that he had a prop in him
Man could not rob him of, and Heaven would spare,
Blessed him one night, ere he lay down to sleep,
And, waking in the morning, found him gone!

[Ferrardo tries to rise.

Move not, or I shall move! You know me.
Oh, yes! you trained me like a cavalier-
You did, indeed! You gave me masters, duke,
And their instructions quickly I took up,

As they did lay them down! I got the start

Of my contemporaries!-not a youth

Of whom could read, write, speak, command a weapon,
Or rule a horse, with me! You gave me all-

All the equipments of a man of honor-
But you did find a use for me, and made
A slave, a profligate, a pander, of me!

I charge you keep your seat!
Ten thousand ducats?

[Ferrardo rising.

What, duke! Is such your offer? Give me, duke,
The eyes that looked upon my father's face,
The hands that helped my father to his wish,
The feet that flew to do my father's will,
The heart that bounded at my father's voice,
And say that Mantua were built of ducats,
And I could be its duke at cost of these,

I would not give them for it! Mark me, duke!
I saw a new-made grave in Mantua,

And on the head-stone read my father's name!
To seek me doubtless, hither he had come—
To seek the child that had deserted him-
And died here, ere he found me,

Heaven can tell how far he wandered else!

Upon that grave I knelt an altered man,

And, rising thence, I fled from Mantua, nor had returned,
But tyrant hunger drove me back again

To thice-to thee !-my body to relieve,

At cost of my dear soul! I have done thy work-
Do mine! and sign me that confession straight,
I'm in thy power, and I'll have thee in mine!
There is the dial, and the sun shines on it—
The shadow on the very point of twelve-
My case is desperate! Your signature
Of vital moment is unto my peace!
My eye is on the dial! Pass the shadow
The point of noon, the breadth of but a hair,
As can my eye discern—and, that unsigned,
The steel is in thy heart! I speak no more!

J. Sheridan Knowles.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

the

HIE is fallen! We may now pause before that splen did prodigy, which towered among us like some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance its magnificence at tracted. Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon throne, a sceptred hermit, wrapt in the solitude of his own originality. A mind, bold, independent, and decisive, -a will despotic in its dictates-an energy that dis tanced expedition, and a conscience pliable to every touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary char acter-the most extraordinary, perhaps, that, in the annals of this world, ever rose, or reigned, or fell.