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To shield, with sleepiess tenderness,
The weak one at her side.
Round it, all night, she gathered warm
Her woolly limbs-her head
Close curved across its feeble form;
Day dawned, and it was dead.
She saw it dead :—she felt, she knew
It had no strength, no breath-
Yet, how could she conceive, poor ewe '
The mystery of death?
It lay before her stiff and cold-
Yet fondly she essayed
To cherish it in love's warm fold;
Then restless trial made,
Moving, with still reverted face,
And low, complaining bleat,
To entice from their damp resting place
Those little stiffening feet.

All would not do, when all was tried:
Love's last fond lure was vain:

So, quietly by its dead side,

She laid her down again.


The White Bear. PERCIVAL.

THE white bear of Greenland and Spitzbergen is considerably larger than the brown bear of Europe, or the black bear of North America. This animal lives upon fish and seals, and is seen not only upon land in the countries bordering on the North Pole, but often upon floats of ice several leagues at sea. The following relation is extracted from the Journal of a Voyage for making discoveries. towards the North Pole."

Early in the morning, the man at the mast-head gave notice that three bears were making their way very fast over the ice, and that they were directing their course towards the ship. They had, without question, been invited by the scent of the blubber of a sea-horse, killed a few days before, which the men had set on fire, and which was burning on the ice at the time of their approach.,

They proved to be a she-bear and her two cubs; but the
cubs were nearly as large as the dam. They ran eagerly to
the fire, and drew out from the flames part of the flesh of
the sea-horse that remained unconsumed, and ate it vora-
ciously. The crew from the ship threw great lumps of the
flesh of the sea-horse, which they had still left, upon the
ice. These the old bear carried away singly; laid every
lump before her cubs as she brought it, and dividing it, gave
each a share, reserving but a small portion to herself. As
she was taking away the last piece, they levelled their
muskets at the cubs, and shot them both dead; and in her
retreat, they wounded the dam, but not mortally.

It would have drawn tears of pity from any but unfeeling
minds to mark the affectionate concern expressed by this
poor beast, in the last moments of her expiring young.
Though she was sorely wounded, and could but just crawl
to the place where they lay, she carried the lump of flesh
which she had fetched away, and placed it before them.
Seeing that they refused to eat, she laid her paws first
upon one and then upon the ether, and endeavored to
raise them up. It was pitiful to hear her moan. When she
found she could not stir them, she went off; and, stopping
when she had gotten to some distance, she looked back and
moaned. When she found that she could not entice them
away, she returned, and smelling around them, began to lick
their wounds. She went off a second time as before; and
having crawled a few paces, looked again behind her, and
some time ood moaning. But still her cubs not rising
to follow her, she returned to them again, and, with signs of
inexpressible fondness, went round one and round the oth-
er, pawing them and moaning. Finding at last that they
were cold and lifeless, she raised her head towards the ship
and growled at the murderers, who then shot her with a vol-
ley of musket balls. She fell between her cubs and died
licking their wounds.


The Miseries of War.-ROBERT HALL.

THOUGH the whole race of man is doomed to dissolution, and we are all hastening to our long home; yet at each suc

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cessive moment, life and death seem to divide between them the dominion of mankind, and life to have the larger share. It is otherwise in war: death reigns there without a rival, and without control. War is the work, the element, or rather the sport and triumph of Death, who glories not only in the extent of his conquest, but in the richness of his spoil. In the other methods of attack, in the other forms which death assumes, the feeble and the aged, who at the best can live but a short time, are usually the victims; here they are the vigorous and the strong.

It is remarked by the most ancient of poets, that in peace children bury their parents, in war parents bury their children nor is the difference small. Children lament their parents, sincerely, indeed, but with that moderate and tranquil sorrow, which it is natural for those to feel who are conscious of retaining many tender ties, many animating prospects. Parents mourn for their hildren with the bitterness of despair; the aged parent, the widowed mother, loses, when she is deprived of her children, every thing but the capacity of suffering; her heart, withered and desolate, admits no other object, cherishes no other hope. It is Rachel, weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted, because they are not.

But, to confine our attention to the number of the slain, would give us a very inadequate idea of the ravages of the sword. The lot of those who perish instantaneously may be considered, apart from religious prospects, as comparatively happy, since they are exempt from those lingering diseases and slow torments to which others are liable. We cannot see an individual expire, though a stranger, or an enemy, without being sensibly moved, and prompted by compassion to lend him every assistance in our power. Every trace of resentment vanishes in a moment: every other emotion gives way to pity and terror.

In these last extremities we remember nothing but the respect and tenderness due to our common nature. What a scene then must a field of battle present, where thousands are left without assistance, and without pity, with their wounds exposed to the piercing air, while the blood, freezing as it flows, binds them to the earth, amidst the trampling of horses, and the insults of an enraged foe! If they are spared by the humanity of the enemy, and carried from the field, it is but a prolongation of torment. Conveyed in uneasy vehicles, often to a remote distance, through roads

almost impassable, they are lodged in ill-prepared recepta cles for the wounded and the sick, where the variety of distress baffles all the efforts of humanity and skill, and renders it impossible to give to each the attention he demands. Far from their native home, no tender assiduities of friendship, no well-known voice, no wife, or mother, or sister, is near to sooth their sorrows, relieve their thirst, or close their eyes in death! Unhappy man! and must you be swept into the grave unnoticed and unnumbered, and no friendly tear be shed for your sufferings, or mingled with your dust?

We must remember, however, that as a very small proportion of a military life is spent in actual combat, so it is a very small part of its miseries which must be ascribed to this source. More are consumed by the rust of inactivity than by the edge of the sword; confined to a scanty or unwholesome diet, exposed in sickly climates, harassed with tiresome marches and perpetual alarms; their life is a continual scene of hardships and dangers. They grow familiar with hunger, cold, and watchfulness. Crowded into hospitals and prisons, contagion spreads amongst their ranks, till the ravages of disease exceed those of the enemy.

We have hitherto only adverted to the sufferings of those who are engaged in the profession of arms, without taking into our account the situation of the countries which are the scene of hostilities. How dreadful to hold every thing at the mercy of an enemy, and to receive life itself as a boon dependent on the sword! How boundless the fears which such a situation must inspire, where the issues of life and death are determined by no known laws, principles, or customs, and no conjecture can be formed of our destiny, except as far as it is dimly deciphered in characters of blood, in the dictates of revenge, and the capric ́es of power!

Conceive but for a moment the consternation which the approach of an invading army would impress on the peaceful villages in our own neighborhood. When you have placed yourselves for an instant in that situation, you will learn to sympathize with those unhappy countries which have sustained the ravages of arms. But how is it possible to give you an idea of these horrors? Here you behold rich harvests, the bounty of Heaven, and the reward of industry, consumed in a moment, or trampled under foot, while famine and pestilence follow the steps of desolation. There the cottages of peasants given up to the flames, mothers expiring through fear, not for themselves but their infants; the

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inhabitants flying with their helpless babes in all directions, miserable fugitives on their native soil! In another part you witness opulent cities taken by storm; the streets, where no sounds were heard but those of peaceful industry, filled on a sudden with slaughter and blood, resounding with the cries of the pursuing and the pursued; the palaces of nobles demolished, the houses of the rich pillaged, and every age, sex, and rank, mingled in promiscuous massacre and ruin?


Nature and Poetry favorable to virtue.—Humility recommended in judging of the ways of Providence.-BEATtie.

O NATURE, how in every charm supreme!
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!
O for the voice and fire of seraphim,

To sing thy glories with devotion due!
Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew
From Pyrrho's maze and Epicurus' sty;

And held high converse with the godlike few, Who, to th' enraptured heart, and ear, and eye, Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody.

Then hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,

Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!
Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,

Amused my childhood, and informed my youth.
O let your spirits still my bosom sooth,
Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide:
Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth,
For well I know wherever ye reside,
There harmony, and peace, and innocence abide.

Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain,

As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore,
Save when, against the winter's drenching rain,
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.
Then, as instructed by tradition hoar,
Her legend when the beldam 'gan impart,
Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,
Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart:
Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art.

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