Mind, mind alone

Is light, and hope, and life, and power!

Earth's deepest night, from this blessed hour-
The night of mind—is gone!

"The Press!" all lands shall sing;
The Press, the Press we bring,

All lands to bless.

O pallid want! O labor stark!
Behold! we bring the second ark!
The Press, the Press, the Press!

A DEFENCE OF POETRY.

ELIEVE not those who tell you that Poetry will seduce the

only admits, but requires, the co-operation of Philosophy and Science. And true Poetry must be always reverent. Would not an universal cloud settle upon all the beauties of Creation, if it were supposed that they had not emanated from Almighty energy? In works of art, we are not content with the accuracy of feature, and the glow of coloring, until we have traced them to the mind that guided the chisel, and gave the pencil its delicacies and its animation. Nor can we look with delight on the features of Nature, without hailing the celestial Intelligence that gave them birth. The Deity is too sublime for Poetry to doubt His existence. Creation has too much of the Divinity insinuated into her beauties to allow Poetry to hesitate in her creed. She demands no proof. She waits for no demonstration. She looks, and she believes. She admires, and she adores. Nor is it alone with natural religion that she maintains this intimate connection; for what is the Christian's hope, but Poetry in her purest and most ethereal essence?

From the beginning she was one of the ministering spirits that stand round the throne of God, to issue forth at His word, and do His errands upon the earth. Sometimes she has been the herald of an offending nation's downfall. Often has she been sent commissioned to offending man, with prophecy and warning upon her lips. At other times she has been intrusted with "glad

tidings of great joy." Poetry was the anticipating apostle, the prophetic evangelist, whose feet were beautiful upon the mountains;" who published salvation; who said unto Zion, "Thy God reigneth!"

BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CESAR.

ROMANS, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause,

that you

any

and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly dear friend of Cæsar's- to him I say, that Brutus' love to Cæsar was not less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were' living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune; honor, for his valor; and death, for his ambition! Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.

None? Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cæsar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth: as which of you shall not? With this I depart: That, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud l:ad lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again.

Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
"T was autumn

and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

66

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 'Stay, stay with us - rest; thou art weary and worn!" And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay —

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

WAT TYLER'S ADDRESS TO THE KING.

ING of England,

Petitioning for pity is most weak
The sovereign people ought to demand justice.
I lead them here against the Lord's anointed,
Because his ministers have made him odious!
His yoke is heavy, and his burden grievous.

Why do ye carry on this fatal war,

To force upon the French a king they hate;

Tearing our young men from their peaceful homes, Forcing his hard-earned fruits from the honest peasant, Distressing us to desolate our neighbors 2

Why is this ruinous poll-tax imposed,

But to support your court's extravagance,
And your mad title to the crown of France?
Shall we sit tamely down beneath these evils,
Petitioning for pity? King of England,
Why are we sold like cattle in your markets,
Deprived of every privilege of man?

Must we lie tamely at our tyrant's feet,

And, like your spaniels, lick the hand that beats us? You sit at ease in your gay palaces:

The costly banquet courts your appetite;

Sweet music soothes your slumbers: we, the while,
Scarce by hard toil can earn a little food,

And sleep scarce sheltered from the cold night-wind,
Whilst your wild projects wrest the little from us
Which might have cheered the wintry hours of age!
The Parliament forever asks more money;

We toil and sweat for money for your taxes;
Where is the benefit- what good reap we
From all the counsels of your government?
Think you that we should quarrel with the French?
What boots to us your victories, your glory?
We pay, we fight-you profit at your ease;
Do you not claim the country as your own?
Do you not call the venison of the forest,

The birds of heaven, your own? — prohibiting us,
Even though in want of food, to seize the prey
Which nature offers? King! is all this just?
Think you we do not feel the wrongs we suffer?
The hour of retribution is at hand,

And tyrants tremble— mark me, King of England!

F

BATTLE HYMN.

ATHER of earth and heaven! I call thy name!
Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll;
My eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame;
Father! sustain an untried soldier's soul.
Or life, or death, whatever be the goal
That crowns or closes round the struggling hour,
Thou knowest, if ever from my spirit stole
One deeper prayer, 't was that no cloud might lower
On my young fame! Oh, hear! God of eternal power!

Now for the fight! Now for the cannon-peal!

Forward through blood, and toil, and cloud, and fire!
Glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel,
The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire!
They shake! like broken waves their squares retire!
On them, hussars! Now give them rein and heel;
Think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire:
Earth cries for blood! In thunder on them wheel!
This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph-seal!

ORATION AGAINST CATILINE.

Cicero, the greatest of Roman orators, was born at Arpinum, 106 B. C., two hundred and sixteen years after the death of Demosthenes. Having taken part against Antony, after the assassination of Cæsar, Cicero was proscribed. He was murdered by a party of soldiers, headed by Popilius Lænas, whose life he had formerly saved by his eloquence; and his head and hands were publicly exhibited on the rostrum at Rome. He perished in his sixty-fourth year, 43 B. C. His writings are voluminous. As an orator, Cicero ranks next to Demosthenes; and his orations against Catiline and Verres are masterpieces of denunciatory eloquence.

HOW

OW far, O Catiline, wilt. thou abuse our patience. How long shalt thou baffle justice in thy mad career? To what extreme wilt thou carry thy audacity? Art thou nothing daunted by the nightly watch posted to secure the Palatium? Nothing, by the city guards? Nothing, by the rally of all good citizens ? Nothing, by the assembling of the Senate in this fortified place? Nothing, by the averted looks of all here present? Seest thou not that all thy plots are exposed? - that thy wretched conspir