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Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;
And, worse than all, and most to be deplored,
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot,

Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat
5 With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart,
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.
Then what is man? And what man, seeing this,
And having human feelings, does not blush,

And hang his head, to think himself a man?
10 I would not have a slave to till my ground,

To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.

No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
15 Just estimation prized above all price,

I had much rather be myself the slave,
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
We have no slaves at home — then why abroad?

And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave
20 That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.

Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free;
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.

That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
25 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,

And let it circulate through every vein
Of all your empire; that where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.


TENNYSON. (ALFRED TENNYSON, a living poet of England, was born at Somersby, Linoolnshire, in 1810. He has published two volumes of miscellaneous poetry; also, “ The Princess," a narrative, in blank verse; a volume called “In Memoriam ;” “ Maud,” in which an unhappy love story is told in a broken and frag

mentary way; and “Idyls of the King," comprising four poems fourded on the legends of King Arthur.

He is a man of rare and fine genius, whose poetry is addressed to refined and cultivated minds. The music of his verse and his skill in the use of language are alike excellent. He is a poet of poets; and, in general, is only fully appreciated by those who have something of the poetical faculty themselves, He is more valued by women than by men, and by young men than by old. He is evidently a man of the finest organization, and his poetry is of the most exquisite and ethereal cast. He has an uncommon power of presenting pictures to the eye, and often in a very few words. Ilis pages are crowded with subjects for the artist. A portion of what he has written is rather remote from the beaten track of human sympathies and feelings; but that he can write popular poetry is shown by his well-known “May Queen.” His volume called “ In Memoriam,” is a very remarkable book. It is a col

red and twenty-nine short poems, written in a peculiar and uniform metre, which were called forth by the early death of Arthur Henry Hallam, the eldest son of the historian, a young man of rare excellence of mind and character, the intimate friend of Tennyson, and betrothed to his sister. Such a book will not be welcome to all minds, nor to any mind at all periods and in all moods; but it contains some of the most exquisite poetry which has been written in our times, and some of the deepest and sweetest effusions of feeling to be found anywhere.

The following spirited poem commemorates a gallant and desperate charge made by a brigade of English light-horse at the battle of Balaklava, in the Crimea, October 25, 1851, under circumstances that seemed to insure the destruction of the whole body. The order to charge was supposed to have been given under a mistake; but nothing was ever distinctly known about it, as Captain Nolan, who delivered it, was the first man who fell. Of six hundred and thirty who started on the charge only a hundred and fifty returned.]

1 Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of death

Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade !
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of death,

Rode the six hundred.

2 “ Forward the Light Brigade ! ”

Was there a man dismayed ?
Not though the soldiers knew

Some one had blundered ;
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:

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1 Flag of the heroes who left us their glory,

Borne through our battle-field's thunder and flame,
Blazoned in song and illumined in story,
Wave o'er us all who inherit their fame!

Up with our banner bright,

Sprinkled with starry light,
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore;

While through the sounding sky,

Loud rings the nation's cry, —
Union and Liberty ! - one evermore!

2 Light of our firmament, guide of our nation,

Pride of her children, and honored afar,
Let the wide beams of thy full constellation

Scatter each cloud that would darken a star!

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Empire unsceptred! what foe shall assail thee,

Bearing the standard of Liberty's van ?
Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee,

Striving with men for the birthright of man!

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Yet, if by madness and treachery blighted,

Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw,

Then, with the arms of thy millions united,

Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law !

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Lord of the Universe! shield us and guide us,

Trusting Thze always, through shadow and sun!
Thou hast united us, who shall divide us ?
Keep us, o keep us, the Many in One !

up with our banner bright,

Sprinkled with starry light,
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore;

While through the sounding sky,

Loud rings the nation's cry, —
Union and Liberty !- one evermore !


Sir WALTER Scott. [The following scene is taken from “ Ivanhoe," a novel, the scene of which is laid in England, in the twelfth century. Ivanhoe, an English knight, is lying wounded and a captive in the Castle of i'ront-de-Baaf, a Norman knight, while it is undergoing an assault from a party of outlawed forest rangers, aided by an unknown knight in black armor, hence called the Black Knight, who afterwards turns out to be Richard, King o

Is turns out to be Richard. King of England. Rebecca is a young Jewish maiden.)

FOLLOWING with wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and availing herself of the protection of the large ancient shield, which she placed against the lower

part of the window, Rebecca, with tolerable security to 5 herself, could witness part of what was passing without

the castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants were making for the storm.

“ The skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, although only a few are advanced from its dark shadow.” 10 “ Under what banner ?” asked Ivanhoe.

“ Under no ensign of war which I can observe," answered Rebecca.

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