SOLEMN REVIEW OF WAR.

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ficiently enlightened to apply the principles of the gospel for the abolition of war; and that we must wait for a more improved state of society. Improved in what? in the science of blood? Are such improvements to prepare the way for peace? Why not wait a few centuries, until the natives of India become more improved in their idolatrous customs, before we attempt to convert them to christianity? Do we expect that by continuing in the practice of idolatry, their minds will be prepared to receive the gospel? If not, let us be consistent, and while we use means for the conversion of heathens, let means also be used for the conversion of christians. For war is in fact a heathenish and savage custom of the most malignant, most desolating, and most horrible character. It is the greatest curse, and results from the grossest delusions, that ever afflicted a guilty world.

THE LYRE.

BY MILTON WARD.

THERE was a Lyre, 't is said, that hung
High waving in the summer air;
An angel hand its chords had strung,
And left to breathe its music there.
Each wandering breeze, that o'er it flew,
Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain,

Than ever shell of mermaid blew
In coral grottoes of the main.
When, springing from the rose's bell,
Where all night he had sweetly slept,
The zephyr left the flowery dell

Bright with the tears that morning wept, He rose, and o'er the trembling lyre, Waved lightly his soft azure wing; What touch such music could inspire! What harp such lays of joy could sing! The murmurs of the shaded rills,

The birds, that sweetly warbled by,

And the soft echo from the hills,

Were heard not where that harp was nigh.

When the last light of fading day

Along the bosom of the west,

In colors softly mingled lay

While night had darken'd all the rest,

Then, softer than that fading light,

And sweeter than the lay, that rung
Wild through the silence of the night,
As solemn Philomela sung,

That harp its plaintive murmurs sighed
Along the dewy breeze of even;
So clear and soft they swelled and died,
They seemed the echoed songs of heaven.
Sometimes, when all the air was still,

And not the poplar's foliage trembled,
That harp was nightly heard to thrill
With tones, no earthly tones resembled.
And then, upon the moon's pale beams,
Unearthly forms were seen to stray,
Whose starry pinions' trembling gleams
Would oft around the wild harp play.

THE LYRE.

But soon the bloom of summer fled,
In earth and air it shone no more;
Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead,
While skies their wintry sternness wore.
One day, loud blew the northern blast,
The tempest's fury raged along;
Oh! for some angel, as they passed,

To shield the harp of heavenly song!
It shrieked how could it bear the touch,
The cold rude touch of such a storm,
When e'en the zephyr seemed too much
Sometimes, though always light and warm!
It loudly shrieked - but ah! in vain;
The savage wind more fiercely blew ;
Once more it never shrieked again,
For every chord was torn in two.
It never thrilled with anguish more,
Though beaten by the wildest blast;
The pang, that thus its bosom tore,

Was dreadful- but it was the last.
And though the smiles of summer played
Gently upon its shattered form,

And the light zephyrs o'er it strayed,

That Lyre they could not wake or warm.

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The towering oak and ancient pine
Our noble forests bear;

The maple bough its blossoms
Flings on the scented air;

And flock and herd and waving grain
Each slope and upland crown;
And autumn winds from laden bough
The mellow fruits shake down;
The fragrant clover tempts the bee,
Its blushing sweets to pry,
And in tall ranks the glossy maize
Points upward to the sky.

No tyrant landlord wrings our soil,
Or rends its fruit away;

The flocks upon our own green hills,
Secure from plunder stray;

No bigot's scourge or martyr's fires
A barbarous creed fulfil,

For the spirit of our stern old sires
Is with their children still.

And pure to heaven our altars rise,
Upon a bloodless sod,

Where man with free unfettered faith

Bows down and worships God.

SONG OF THE HUSBAND MAN.

No midnight revel wastes our strength,
Or prints our brows with care;
We shun the noisy wassail,

The serpents coiling there;

But childhood's ringing tones of mirth,
And love's refined caress,

With the pure page of knowledge,
Our peaceful evenings bless.
And underneath our pillow

There's a spell for slumber's hour,

And for the sons of toil alone

That magic spell hath power.

Our homes! our dear New-England homes!
Where sweet affections meet;

Where the cool poplar spreads its shade,
And flowers our senses greet;
The lily rears her polished cup,
The rose as freshly springs,
And to the sky looks gaily up,
As in the courts of kings;

And the vine that climbs the window,
Hangs drooping from above,

And sends its grateful odors in
With messages of love.

Then hail to thee! New England!
Thou cherished land of ours;
Our sons are like the granite rocks,
Our daughters like the flowers.
We quail to none, of none we crave,
Nor bend the servile knee;
The life-blood that our fathers gave,
Still warms the firm and free.
Free as our eagle spreads his wings,
We own no tyrant's rod,

No master but the King of kings,
No monarch but our God!

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