Oh, what a wondrous revelry!

Their music the deep cannon's thunder,Spectators there the earth and sky,

Aghast with awe and dreadful wonder,

To think that human hearts should madly joy, To count the victims whom their hands destroy!

'Tis past, and many a widowed voice

Is heard, and orphan cries resounding ;— And Rachel will not now rejoice,

Though glory's trump is victory sounding. "Thrice happy he who for his country dies!""Give back my children!" mournful she replies.

Ah! what a dreary silence round!

No, not a zephyr murmur's sighing

Its funeral anthem o'er the ground,

Where mingled lie the dead and dying: Doth Nature, then, like man refuse to own

Those whom thy foot, O Death, hath trampled on?

Yet here upon the dew-cold sod,

Earth's purest, noblest, blood is flowing, And honour here, with reverent nod,

Bends, homage due and praise bestowing. But what to thee, O scornful Death! appears The blazoned heraldry of thousand years!

And thousands, too, a meaner band,

Fell here, the phantom glory wooing;

Or puppets moved they by the hand

Of some their mightier ends pursuing.

Sure this we know, in one vast burial thrown,
Fame could not grant them e'en-an empty stone.

Mourner! like thee I'd pause and weep,
O'er yon proud dust, in grief reclining,
But say how long the heart will keep
Its cherished griefs, in vain repining.

There still are left to court the widowed fair,
And smooth the wrinkled brow of pensive care.

Ere yet a few short months be passed,

Fond broken hearts! and farewell sorrow!

"To day," ye cry, "is fleeting fast,

"And life can boast no certain morrow." Your buried sons will ne'er, I ween, intrude, And call you back to worms and solitude.

But see! in slow majestic state

Moves on the calm moon, mildly burning;
Farewell, poor toy-things of the great,
To other gods the world is turning:
E'en now it wanes, the lustre of your fame,
And are ye more than echoes of a name ?

But o'er the relics of the just,

Dim forms I view of light reposing,—
"Tis numbered all, their hallowed dust,

Though sinks the marble o'er them closing;
Till the dread trump, which bids the dead arise,
Calls them to wear true glory's deathless prize.

THE ESSAYIST. No. 6.

ON THE EFFECT OF RELIGION ON LITERATURE.

Ir is an opinion which has been very generally held, and which has a great appearance of truth, that all times have been nearly equally favoured in regard to the proportion of genius assigned to them, but that varying circumstances have tended at one time to repress, at another to foster and stimulate it, so as to produce that manifest inequality in intellectual vigour observable in different ages. These influential causes are very various : climate, manners, and political institutions all have their due weight; but far more powerful than all these are the effects of religion. And it seems natural that it should be so. The influence of other circumstances is chiefly on the outward character, but religion exercises a power over the heart and intellect, and in a manner forms and moulds them according to its own peculiarities. And thus we find that in all ages, where religion has been debased, the human mind has been equally so; and on the contrary, in proportion as it has been-though perhaps erroneous--(for without direct Revelation it cannot be otherwise) yet consistent with reason, it has been the nurse and almost the main-spring of all that is great in arts or literature.

The first efforts of man, when emerging from the state of mere barbarism, are generally directed by religion. The first inspiration of poetry which he feels in his breast is embodied in a song in praise of the God he worships, and the first attempt to rise above the rude structure of his hut, is to build a temple in which he may suitably adore him. And though afterwards the scope of these efforts may be widely extended, yet this influence still continues throughout, and so entwines itself with the whole, that it generally in a great measure gives the distinctive character to the genius and works of different times and countries. It was thus with the Greeks, the earliest people of whose progress in the fine arts we have any distinct account. The first fragments of their writings trans. mitted to us-many of them of uncertain date and authorship—are chiefly hymns to their gods, or verses in their praise. In time, their poetry embraced all subjects, but religion was still so interwoven with their thoughts and feelings,

that the first step to the understanding of their writings, is to make ourselves acquainted with their ideas and opinions on this subject. And in this instance the influence was mutual. Not only did the religion first direct the literature, but afterwards their literature fixed and modelled their religion. The lively imagination of the Grecian poets wrought up the wild and mythic fable and floating traditions of their countrymen into that elegant and poetic, but highly erroneous system, which had such an influence over their manners and their minds. And though its real grossness, hidden under this romantic veil, was in a great degree a check upon their powers, yet they often threw off its trammels, and burst forth into more noble and worthy ideas of the Deity.

The rise and progress of the Greek drama is a remarkable illustration of our subject: originating in a mere rural festival to Bacchus, and gradually rising higher and higher, until it shone forth in that splendour which has dazzled the world, it still retained its original character, and to the very last was only a necessary part of a religious festival.

But not only may we trace the influence of religion, in the broad masses of light and shade, in its effects on the genius of times and countries: if we approach nearer, we shall find that it gives a distinct colouring to the works of individuals, according to the form and modification in which it is held. How different, in this respect, are Eschylus and Euripides; the lofty Pythagorean sentiments of the one,—his awe of the Deities, and the dreary power of Fate, are a perfect contrast to the familiar philosophy and sententious ethics of the other. If time and space permitted, we might shew that it had an effect equally powerful upon the literature of the Romans; but we must turn to another branch of the subjecct.

If the religion of the ancients, which, if its professors had not often nobly risen above their tenets, were hardly worthy the name,—if such a system of error held so great a power over their minds and writings, what much greater effects should we not look for from Christianity, which is as superior to it as the broad noonday is to the dim twilight. And such effects, we think, Christianity has produced; it has given a sublimity and elevation to the sentiments, a strength and vigour to the judgment, and a softening to the whole feelings and nature, which the ancients never knew. And we would here remark, that that long night of intellectual torpor expressively designated the dark ages, is no more to be ascribed to Christianity, than the darkness of night to the sun; for it was the absence of its true spirit which led to that mass of error and absurdities, little better than the polytheism of the ancients. Superstition had then the effect which it always must have, to hold down the mind with an iron grasp; but as soon as its clouds began to disperse, and the dawn of better days to appear, the spell was broken, and men awoke to the full consciousness and vigour of their mental powers.

We have only to glance at our own literature to see what a widely different spirit our religion has thrown over it, when compared with that of the ancients.

Let us take Homer and Milton, the two great epic poets of ancient and modern times. What an infinite superiority does the Christianity of the one give him over the heathenism of the other! In Homer, we find the gods, the objects held up for the adoration of man, often worse and weaker beings than himself; and not only of corporeal form and parts, but agitated by every passion which can mar the moral beauty of our nature. In Milton, on the contrary, the Deity is displayed in all the majesty of his attributes,-Omniscient, Omnipresent, and Almighty, such a being as man's reason could never have formed a concep. tion of; by his sublimity he commands our awe and adoration, and by his love he engages our affections. And if we extend this view to the whole scope and character of our literature, we shall find that Christianity has worked a charm on the mind of man, almost similar to that of the fabled lyre of Orpheus, soothing down the harsh features of his disposition, and calling forth all those finer touches of character which can ennoble and elevate his nature. This is, probably, in a great measure, the reason why the modern is so much the poetry of feeling, in opposition to the action and real life which forms so striking a characteristic of the works of the ancients. This refinement and depth of feeling is remarkably manifested in the superior perception of the beauties of nature which distinguishes the moderns; for the monuments of the ancients which have reached us, seem to show, that with a deep sense of the sublime and beautiful, they were little affected by the more minute beauties of nature, and were almost totally ignorant of what we call the picturesque.

The gigantic strides which the world has made under the influence of Chris. tianity, during the last few centuries, in every branch of science and philo sophy, sufficiently evidence its effects in enlarging and strengthening the reasoning powers. And the galaxy of literary stars which our own country can boast, in the characters of such men as Bacon, Locke, Newton, and Herschel, who owned their obligations to it, show its beneficial influence on individual minds.

We may, then, conclude that an enlightened faith produces an enlightened mind; and that Christianity, by dispelling the clouds of error which before involved the world, has been equally powerful in advancing the intellectual as the moral improvement of man.

THE LEAP OF LICHTEWALD.

A GERMAN BALLAD.

O'er Falkenberge's castled height
The sun broke forth in radiance bright;

And soon beneath the morning light

Smiled wood and mountain gray.

And on the lofty Donjon Keep,
High perched upon the rocky steep,
Which over-hung the torrent deep,

Bright beamed the golden ray.

The feudal banner planted there,
Wide waving in the morning air,

Its crimson folds outspread.

Above the arched portal strong,
The sleepless warder paced along,

With slow and measured tread.

Sudden upon his ear there fell
The clanging peal of the castle bell,

Which welcomed in the morn;
The sound full well the warder knew;
He stopped, and from his baldric drew
His well-toned bugle horn.

He blew a blast so loud and shrill,
The wild deer started on the hill,
And Lichtewald and Drachengill

The lengthened echoes heard.

It roused the hardy warriors all,
Who answering to the well known call,
Thronged to the castle yard.

Here, many a knight of high degree,
The pride of German chivalry,
All fully cased from head to heel,
In armour proof of Milan steel;

There, armed with battle-axe and spear,
The sturdy men-at-arms appear;
Black were the corslets of their wear,

Their helmets burnished steel:

True to the summons of their lord,
They'd left the merry festal board,

And their unfinished meal.

The grooms from out the stables lead

Their chargers strong, of Flemish breed, Square built and large of limb;

Each from his shoulder to his tail

Was barded all with plate of mail,

And crimson housings trim.

The troopers mounted; not with ease
Could they their massive bodies raise,
So great their weight and size;
Such that, when stricken to the ground,
Though scathless, and without a wound,
Were vain the attempt to rise.

Soon seated in their saddles fast,
Longer and louder than the last

The trumpet-call was blown;