to weight of character, to intellectual ability rooted in principle.

1 CÒN'COURSE (kõng'kõrs). The com- | . pline, or to a regular course of edu

ing together of many persons or cation.

things; a flocking together. | 4 FẠC-TI"TIOys. Unnatural ; made by • BĘ-NÉF'I-CĚNCE. Active goodness. art; artificial.

• DÍS'CI-PLI-NA-RY. Relating to disci. Ó GRĂV'I-TĀTES. Is attracted,

LXXXVII.— THE BATTLE FIELD.

BRYANT,

[William Cullen Bryant was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. He has resided for many years in or near the city of New York. His poetry is distinguished for its high finish, its lofty moral tone, and its admira. ble descriptions of American scenery.]

1. ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and arméd hands

Encountered in the battle-cloud.

2. Ah, never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her brave,
Gushed, warm with hope and valor yet,

Upon the soil they fought to save.

3. Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;

Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine', are heard.

4. No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain?; Men start not at the battle-cry;

O, be it never heard again!

5. Soon rested those who fought; but thou,

Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,

Thy warfare only ends with life.

6. A friendless warfare! lingering long

Through weary day and weary year;
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

7. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot!
The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown — yet faint thou not!

8. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

• The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn,
For with thy side shall dwell at last

The victory of endurance born.

9. Truthi, crushed to earth, shall rise again;

The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,

And dies among his worshippers.

10. Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When those who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

11. Another hand thy sword shall wield?,

Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed“

The blast of triumph o'er thy grave!

LXXXVIII. – THE DEATH SCENE IN ION.

TALFOURD. [Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd, an English writer, lawyer, and judge, was born in 1795, and died in 1854. He was made a judge of the Court of Common Pleas in 1849. He was the author of several dramatic poems, and of a biography of Charles Lamb. His plays are characterized by smooth versification, hightoned sentiment, and abundant imagery. The following is the closing scene of “ Ion,” the most popular of his dramas, the plot of which is taken from the mythology of ancient Greece. Ion is introduced in the beginning of the play, as a youth in attendance upon a temple of Apollo in Argos, of which Medon is high priest. Argos is wasted by a pestilence, which the oracle has declared will not cease till the line of the reigning king, Adrastus, shall have become extinct. Ion proves to be the son of Adrastus; and having assumed the crown upon the death of the latter, devotes himself to self-destruction for his coun. try's sake. Clemanthe is the daughter of Medon, and Phocion is his son. The other characters are sages and soldiers of Argos.]

The Procession. Enter MEDON, AGENOR, PHOCION, TIMOCLES, CLEON, Sages, and PEOPLE — Ion, last, in royal robes. He advances amidst shouts.

Ion. I thank you for your greeting. - Shout no more,
But in deep silence raise your hearts to Heaven,
That it may strengthen one so young and frail
As I am, for the business of this hour.
Must I sit here?

Medon. Permit thy earliest friend,
Who has so often propped thy tottering steps,
To lead thee to thy throne, and thus fulfil
His fondest vision.

Ion. Thou art still most kind

Medon. Nay, do not think of me. — My son! my son!
What ails thee? When thou shouldst reflect the joy
Of Argos, the strange paleness of the grave
Marbles thy face.

Ion. Am I indeed so pale ?
It is a solemn office I assume;
Yet thus, with Phæbus'* blessing, I embrace it.

Agenor. I await thy will.

Ion. To thee I look as to the wisest friend
Of this afflicted people. Thou must leave
Awhile the quiet which thy life hath earned,
To rule our councils ; fill the seats of justice
With good men, — not so absolute in goodness,
As to forget what human frailty is ;-
And order my sad country.

Agen. Pardon me —

Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request : Thou never couldst deny me what I sought In boyish wantonness', and shall not grudge Thy wisdom to me, till our state revive From its long anguish. It will not be long If Heaven approve me here. Thou hast all power, Whether I live or die.

Agen. Die! I am old

Ion. Death is not jealous of thy mild decay,
Which gently wins thee his; exulting Youth
Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride,
And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp
His shivering prey at noontide. Let me see
The captain of the guard.

Crythes. I kneel to crave
Humbly the favor which thy sire bestowed
On one who loved him well.

Ion. I cannot thank thee,
That wak’st the memory of my father's weakness ;
But I will not forget that thou hast shared
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit,
And learned the need of luxury. I grant
For thee and thy brave comrades, ample share
Of such rich treasures as my stores contain,
To grace thy passage to some distant land,
Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword,

May glorious laurels wreath it! In our realm,
We shall not need it longer.

Cry. Dost intend
To banish the firm troops before whose valor
Barbarian millions shrink appalled, and leave
Our city naked to the first assault
Of reckless foes!

Ion. No, Crythes! In ourselves,
In our own honest hearts and chainless hands,
Will be our safeguard. — While we seek no use
Of arms we would not have our children blend
With their first innocent wishes; while the love
Of Argos and of justice shall be one
To their young reason; while their sinews grow
Firm 'midst the gladness of heroic sports, —
We shall not ask, to guard our country's peace,
One selfish passion, or one venal’ sword.
I would not grieve thee; but thy valiant troop
For I esteem them valiant — must no more,
With luxury which suits a desperate camp,
Infect us. See that they embark, Agenor,
Ere night.

Cry. My lord —

Ion. No more - my word hath passed.
Medon, there is no office I can add .
To those thou hast grown old in. — Thou wilt guard
The shrine of Phæbus, and within thy home –
Thy too delightful home — befriend the stranger
As thou didst me. — There sometimes waste a thought
On thy spoiled inmate !

Medion. Think of thee, my lord ?
Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign-

Ion. Prithee 3 no more. Argives,* I have a boon
To crave of you. — Whene'er I shall rejoin

* ÄR'giveș. Inhabitants of Argos.