SPEECH OF BELIAL DISSUADING FROM WAR.

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SPEECH OF BELIAL DISSUADING FROM WAR. I SHOULD be much for open war, Oh Peers, as not behind in hate, if what was urged main reason to persuade immediate war, did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast ominous conjecture on the whole success-when he, who most excels in fact of arms, in what he counsels and in what excels mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair and utter dissolution; as the scope of all his aim, after some dire revenge. First, what revenge? The towers of heaven are filled with armèd watch, that render all access impregnable; oft on the bordering deep encamp their legions, or, with obscure wing, scout far and wide into the realm of night, scorning surprise. Or, could we break our way by force, and at our heels all hell should rise in blackest insurrection, to confound heaven's purest light; yet, our Great Enemy, all incorruptible, would on His throne sit unpolluted; and the etherial mould, incapable of stain, would soon expel her mischief, and purge off the baser fire victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope is flat despair. We must exasperate the Almighty Victor to spend all his rage -and that must end us! that must be our cure, TO BE NO MORE: Sad Cure! for, who would lose, though full of pain, this intellectual being? those thoughts that wander through eternity, to perish rather,-swallowed up and lost in the wide womb of uncreated night, devoid of sense and motion! And who knows, (let this be good,) whether our angry Foe can give it? or will ever? How he can-is doubtful; that He never will is sure. Will He, so wise, let loose at once his ire,-belike through impotence, or unaware,-to give his enemies their wish; and end them in His anger, whom his anger saves to punish endless? "Wherefore cease we then?" say they who counsel war; we are decreed, reserved, and destined to eternal woe: whatever doing, what can we suffer more? what can we suffer worse?" Is this then worse, thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? What! when we fled amain, pursued and struck with Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought the deep to shelter us? this Hell then seemed a refuge from those wounds; or when we lay chained on the burning lake? that sure was worse. What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, and plunge us in the flames? or, from above, should intermitted vengeance arm again his red right hand to plague us? What if all her stores were opened, and this firmament of hell should spout his cataracts of fire,--impendent horrors,

threatening hideous, fall one day upon our heads! while we, perhaps, designing or exhorting glorious war, caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled, each on his rock transfixed :—the sport and prey of racking whirlwinds; and for ever sunk under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains,-there to converse with everlasting groans, unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved, ages of hopeless end! This would be worse! War, therefore, open or concealed, alike my voice dissuades.-Milton.

MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.

THE Moslem spears were gleaming round Damietta's towers, Though a Christian banner from her wall waved free its lilyflowers.

Ay! proudly did the banner wave, as queen of earth and air; But faint hearts throbbed beneath its folds in anguish and despair.

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon their kingly chieftain lay,
And low on many an Eastern field, their knighthood's best

array.

'Twas morning when at feast they met, the wine-cup round to send;

For each that touched it silently then missed a gallant friend. And mournful was their vigil on the beleaguered wall,

And dark their slumber,-dark with dreams of slow defeat and fall.

Yet a few hearts of chivalry rose high to breast the storm, And one-of all the loftiest there thrilled in a Woman's

form!

A Woman, meekly bending o'er the slumber of her child, With her soft, sad eyes of weeping love, as the Virgin Mother's mild!

Oh! roughly cradled was the babe, 'midst the clash of spear and lance,

And a strange wild bower was thine, young queen! fair Marguerite of France!

A dark and vaulted chamber, like a scene for wizard-spell,
Deep in the Saracenic gloom of the warrior citadel;

And there, 'midst arms, the couch was spread, and with

banners curtained o'er,

For the daughter of the minstrel-land,-the gay Provençal

shore.

For the bright queen of St. Louis, the Star of court and hall! But the deep strength of the gentle heart, wakes to the tempest's call.

Her lord was in the Paynim's hold; his soul with grief oppressed;

Yet calmly lay she, desolate, with her young babe on her breast!

There were voices in the city, voices of wrath and fear"The walls grow weak, the strife is vain-we will not perish here!

Yield yield! and let the Crescent gleam o'er tower and bastion high!

Our distant homes are beautiful-we stay not here to die."

They bore those fearful tidings to the sad queen where she lay

They told a tale of wavering hearts, of treason and dismay : The blood rushed through her pearly cheeks, the sparkle to

her eye

"Now call me hither those recreant knights-from the bands of Italy!"

Then through the vaulted chamber stern iron footsteps rang; And heavily the sounding floor gave back the sabre's clang. They stood around her-steel-clad men, moulded for storm and fight;

But they quailed before the loftier soul, in that pale aspect .bright.

Yes! as before the falcon shrinks the bird of meaner wing, So shrank they from the imperial glance of her, that fragile thing!

And her flute-like voice rose clear and high, through the din of arms around

Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul, as a silver clarion's sound.

"The honour of the Lily is in your hands to keep,

And the banner of the Cross, for Him who died on Calvary's

steep;

And the city which, for Christian prayer, hath heard the holy Bell :

And is it these your hearts would yield to the godless infidel?

"Then bring me here a breast-plate and a helm, before ye fly, And I will gird my woman's form, and on the ramparts die!

And the boy-whom I have borne for woe, but never for disgrace

Shall

go within mine arms to death-meet for his royal race! "Look on him as he slumbers in the shadow of the lance! Then go, and, with the Cross, forsake the princely babe of France!

But tell your homes you left one heart to perish undefiled;
A Woman, and a Queen, to guard her honour and her child!"

Before her words they thrilled:-like hares when winds are in the woods;

And a deepening murmur told of men roused to a loftier mood.

And her babe awoke to flashing swords, unsheathed in many a hand,

As they gathered round the helpless one, again a noble band !

"We are thy warriors, Lady! true to the cross and thee! The spirit of thy kindling words on every sword shall be. Rest, with the fair child on thy breast; Rest-we will guard thee well.

St. Denis for the Lily-flower and the Christian Citadel!" -Mrs. Hemans.

LUCY GRAY.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I cross'd the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day,
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wild moor-
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green,
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night-
You to the town must go;
And take the lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

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That, father, will I gladly do!
'Tis scarcely afternoon-

The minster clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!"

At this the father raised his hook
And snapp'd a faggot band;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blyther is the mountain roe;
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powd'ry snow
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time;
She wander'd up and down,
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reach'd the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on a hill they stood
That overlook'd the moor,

And thence they saw the bridge of wood
A furlong from their door.

And, turning homeward, now they cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!"

When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They track'd the foot-marks small,
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall.

And then an open field they cross'd,
The marks were still the same;
They track'd them on, nor ever lost,
And to the bridge they came.

They follow'd from the stony bank
The footmarks one by one,

Into the middle of the plank,

And further there were none.