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When man to man united,
And every wrong thing righted.
The whole world shall be lighted

As Eden was of old.

I live for those who love me,

For the hearts that love me true,
For the Heaven that smiles above me,

And awaits my spirit too.
For the right that lacks assistance,
For the wrong that needs resistance,
For the future in the distance,

And the good that I can do.

THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT.-M. H. COBB.

IF men cared less for wealth and fame,

And less for battle-fields and glory;
If, writ in human hearts, a name

Seemed better than in song and story;
If, men instead of nursing pride,

Would learn to hate it and abhor it;
If more relied on Love to guide,

The world would be the better for it.

If men dealt less in stocks and lands,

And more in bonds and deeds fraternal;
If Love's work had more willing hands,

To link this world to the supernal;
If men stored up Love's oil and wine,

And on bruised human hearts would pour it;
If "yours” and “mine” would once combine,

The world would be the better for it.

If more would act the play of life,

And fewer spoil it in rehearsal;
If Bigotry would sheathe its knife

Till Good became more universal;

BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

183

If Custom, gray with ages grown,

Had fewer blind men to adore it;
If talent shone for Truth alone,

The world woul:l be the better for it.

If men were wise in little things

Affecting less in all their dealings
If hearts had fewer rusted strings

To isolate their kindly feelings;
If men, when Wrong beats down the Right,

Would strike together and restore it;
If Right made Might in every fight,

The world would be the better for it.

BATTLE OF WATERLOO.-BYRON.

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shoue o'er fair women and brave men;

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! harkl-a deep sound strikes like a rising knell i

Did ye not hear it ?—No; 'twas 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 feet
But, hark !—That heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat.
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Armarm! 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

Blushed 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 night 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 thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips—“The foe! they comel 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 molder 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 marshaling in arms—the day

Battle's magnificently stern array !
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,

The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,-friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!

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