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made it; and how have God's creatures darkened and outraged it to the wrong of one another. Well, what had this man of the world? What stake, as the effrontery of selfishness has it? The wild fox was better cared for. Though preserved some day to be killed, it was preserved until then. What did this old man inherit? Toil, incessant toil, with no holiday of the heart: he came into the world a badged animal of labor the property of animals. What was the earth to him?-a place to die in.

"The poor shall never cease out of the land." Shall we, then, accommodating our sympathies to this hard necessity, look serenely down upon the wretched? Shall we preach only comfort to ourselves from the doomed condition of others?

But the "Old Man at the Gate" has, for seventy years, worked and worked; and what his closing reward? — the workhouse! Shall we not, some of us, blush crimson at our own world-successes, pondering the destitution of our worthy, single-hearted fellows? Should not affluence touch its hat to the "Old Man at the Gate" with a reverence for the years upon him; he, the born soldier of poverty, doomed for life to lead life's forlorn hope!

To our mind, the venerableness of age made the "Old Man at the Gate" something like a spiritual presence. He was so old, who could say how few the pulsations of his heart between him and the grave? But there he was with a meek happiness upon him; gentle, cheerful. He was not built up in bricks and mortar, but was still in the open air, with the sweetest influences about him; the sky, the trees, the greensward, and flowers with the breath of God in them!



There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone 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! hark!—a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

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,

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And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! 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 come ! 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,
Battle's magnificently stern array!

the day,

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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NOTES. The battle of Waterloo was fought on June 18, 1815, between the French army on one side, commanded by Napoleon

Bonaparte, and the English army and allies on the other side, commanded by the Duke of Wellington. At the commencement of the battle, some of the officers were at a ball at Brussels, a short distance from Waterloo, and being notified of the approaching contest by the cannonade, left the ball room for the field of battle.

The wood of Soignies lay between the field of Waterloo and Brussels. It is supposed to be a remnant of the forest of Ardennes.



I need not dwell now on the waste and cruelty of war. These stare us wildly in the face, like lurid meteor lights, as we travel the page of history. We see the desolation and death that pursue its demoniac footsteps. We look upon sacked towns, upon ravaged territories, upon violated homes; we behold all the sweet charities of life changed to wormwood and gall. Our soul is penetrated by the sharp moan of mothers, sisters, and daughters-of fathers, brothers, and sons, who, in the bitterness of their bereavement, refuse to be comforted.

Our eyes rest at last upon one of these fair fields, where Nature, in her abundance, spreads her cloth of gold, spacious and apt for the entertainment of mighty multitudes or, perhaps, from the curious subtlety of its position, like the carpet in the Arabian tale, seeming to contract so as to be covered by a few only, or to dilate so as to receive an innumerable host. Here, under a bright sun, such as shone at. Austerlitz or Buena Vista amidst the peaceful harmonies of nature-on the Sabbath of peace. we behold bands of brothers, children of a common Father, heirs to a common happiness, struggling together in the deadly fight, with the madness of fallen

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spirits, seeking with murderous weapons the lives of brothers who have never injured them or their kindred.

The havoc rages. The ground is soaked with their commingling blood. The air is rent by their commingling cries. Horse and rider are stretched together on the earth. More revolting than the mangled victims, than the gashed limbs, than the lifeless trunks, than the spattering brains, are the lawless passions which sweep, tempest-like, through the fiendish tumult.

Horror-struck, we ask, wherefore this hateful contest? The melancholy, but truthful answer comes, that this is the established method of determining justice between


The scene changes. Far away on the distant pathway of the ocean two ships approach each other, with white canvas broadly spread to receive the flying gales. They are proudly built. All of human art has been lavished in their graceful proportions, and in their well compacted sides, while they look in their dimensions like floating happy islands on the sea. A numerous crew, with costly appliances of comfort, hives in their secure shelter. Surely these two travelers shall meet in joy and friendship; the flag at the masthead shall give the signal of friendship; the happy sailors shall cluster in the rigging, and even on the yardarms, to look each other in the face, while the exhilarating voices of both crews shall mingle in accents of gladness uncontrollable. It is not so. Not as brothers, not as friends, not as wayfarers of the common ocean, do they come together; but as enemies.

The gentle vessels now bristle fiercely with deathdealing instruments. On their spacious decks, aloft on all their masts, flashes the deadly musketry. From their

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