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trate the chambers of the grave, and catch the ear of

-- Death; where deep in charnel-house, He pledg'd the slimy goblet round, And held his court in gay carouse,

With wreaths of yew and cypress bound; Who calls upon his spectre-train to rejoice with him in the prospect of expected carnage, and to accompany him to the rich banquet which a field of battle was about to furnish.

" To-day! to-day! a jubilee,
A royal feast of blood shall be!
But, again, before we go,

Festive goblets round shall flow!"

We forbear to describe the ingredients of which the favourite beverage of the grisly king is represented as being composed. However brilliant the display of imagination in this part of the Poem, we shrink from dwelling on the horrid compound; and proceed to the conclusion of Death's spirited Address:

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"Spectres, raise your wine-cups high!
Join in mirth and revelry!
"Tis to high Ambition's hand,
"Tis to War's prolific brand,
"Tis to Heroes, Kings, we owe

All the joys such sweets bestow!

Be to them your goblets quaff'd,

Pledge them in each grateful draught!

Sound their names,-till ev'ry tomb,

Secret vault and catacomb,—
Till the lowest deeps of hell
Shout them back with mighty swell,
And the dead, of ages past,
Quake beneath the rending blast!
They are worthy to receive

All the honors fiends can give !But again the doubling drum And the trumpet bid us come! Furies! spectres! then away, And share with me the holiday!" Merely viewed as a spectacle, how splendid and interesting a sight is the review of an army in all its gorgeous array, and in all the perfect order and mechanism of its movements? Nor, to the mass of those who behold it, are any other sensations present than those of joyful gratification, for they look not beyond the present moment. But let the horrid work of the soldiery be exhibited, instead of their amusing and gay parade -let the park of pleasure be exchanged for the field of battle, and

every humane and reflective mind will shudder with horror at the contrast. The showy attire and commanding crest of the warrior will then assume a more chilling appearance than the sable dresses and nodding plumes of a funeral procession. The following description of an army before the commencement of a battle, possesses, in our esteem, considerable merit.

Far as the sight could stretch, the line
With arms and gold did glitt'ring shine:
It seem'd a dazzling stream of light,-
A glorious way, like that at night
Form'd by the galaxy we trace,
All gemm'd with stars thro' boundless space.
The hauberk, helm, and bright cuirass,
Of polish'd steel or burnish'd brass,-
The sword, the spear, and falchion bright,
All glitt'ring in the morning light,
As though they were of temper'd flame;
So swift, so bright, the flashes came,
Reflected from each point and blade,
As lucid sun-beams round them play'd,
And silken standards waving fair,
Which wanton'd sportive in the air
With golden eagles, as on high
In challenge they appear'd to fly,
And scatter lightnings in their ire,
Or speed themselves on wings of fire;
And plumes, which rustling in the gale, '
Seem'd o'er the living flood to sail
In dazzling whiteness,-like the wings

Of sea-fowl, flapp'd in playful motion
Above the glitt'ring waves of ocean,
When Phoebus stooping, mildly flings
His lustre at declining day

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Upon their plumage gemm'd with spray,'
Join'd with the warriors' air and state,
As on their goodly steeds they sate,
With manly forms and princely mien,
(For nothing through the crowds did reign,
Nor aught still met the prying eye
But beauty, strength, activity,
And manhood's might and energy,)
Display'd a sight so gay, so fair,
So free from show of pain or care,
Whilst martial music's choral strains,
Floating melodious o'er the plains
In a full tide of swelling sound,
Now made each throbbing heart to bound,
And then with softer, calmer lay
Sooth'd ev'ry ling'ring care away;
None could have known or guess'd, I ween,
But they who War's fell arts had seen,
That all this splendid pomp and show
Should usher in-but crimes and woe;
That this fair dawn, so bright, so gay,
Was but the prelude to a day
Of blackest storms ;-of horrors dire ;-
Whirlwinds of smoke, and storms of fire;
That ere the steeds of Day should lave
Their breasts in Atalanta's wave,

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Thousands of those they now beheld Should slaughter'd press the gory field. The sight of so many men met for each other's destruction, merely To gratify some Tyrant's will,

Or sceptres win for crafty knaves, Astonishes even Death himself, who begins to moralize upon the occasion, and to be half inclined to recede from his anticipated feast. After enumerating the wicked or foolish motives which have led to bloody wars, he concludes his soliloquy thus,

Then let mankind no more complain
Of War, or mad Ambition's reign;
Themselves encourage, foster, feed
The hydra 'neath whose fangs they bleed.
Withhold the meed of high renown;
Pull the triumphal column down;
The trophied arch,-the sculptur'd bust,—
And hurl the banner in the dust;
Mark with the brand of infamy
Each blood-stain❜d name in history;
Guard ardent youth against the verse
Where bards with praise their deeds

rehearse,

Let not the kindling, madd'ning page Infect their souls with Glory's rage; Nor, whilst their hearts with life are

warm,

Thrill with the war-song's wakening

charm;

And laurels will turn sear and brown'-
Will wither on the conq'ror's crown,
For, 'tis not love of slaughter draws
The warrior's sword,-'tis Fame,
Applause;

These are the lures which lead him out,
"Tis Glory wakes the battle shout:
This is the bribe that nations hod

To tempt the ardent, restless, bold; And oft, less cruel they who roam To fight-than they who keep at home." While the armies are preparing for the deadly combat, our Poet represents the King of Terrors as standing upon an ancient tumulus, and with great interest contemplating their movements. He is surrounded by a "hideous group" of attendants. The spawn of sin,-a loathsome birth, By Satan sent to vex the earth, The War-fiend early found the brood, And fed their growth with human blood. Since which, whene'er he stalks his round Of dreary conquest, they are found Attendant on his fell career,Well pleas'd his frightful toils to share. DEATH over all held high command, Dread sov'reign of the grisly band!

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All these, with crowd

Of fiends beside,-fierce, rav'nous, loud,
(As Lust, Rage, Malice, Pride,) were found
The King of Terrors gather'd round,-
Who, as he stood, to distant eye.
Seem'd a dark cliff against the sky.

Poetry has often proved the handmaid of Painting, and has suggested some of the finest subjects for the pencil of the artist. Indeed one of its greatest excellencies consists in those forcible delineations of character and event, which exhibit to the imagination, scenes so correctly drawn and so vividly coloured, that the intelligent and skilful painter seems to be copying, rather than composing, the subjects he wishes to present to the eye. The following description of Death is, we think, deserving of this character.

In truth, he was of giant size,

With parchment cheeks, and hollow eyes,
Fixed and large, which seem'd like brass,
Scal'd o'er with cloudy films of glass :
And such the petrifying rays
Which from them fell,-at his dread gaze
Creatures fast wither'd, as when forth
From Arctic den the blighting north
Pour'd o'er the Gallic host his breath,
And smote them with an icy death:
And through his veins, a gall-like flood
Crept sluggishly, instead of blood,

Which oozing from his pores would come,
Black, pois'nous, as the Upas' gum';

Whilst from his ashy lips between
Mildews and plagues were issuing seen;
And fetid vapors,-deadly, pale

As sulphur flame,-stream'd on the gale
From his wide nostrils, ---till each breeze
Teem'd with strange shapes of fell disease.
A mighty scimitar he bore,-

A spear, all crusted thick with gore,
On which he lean'd,-as if, in pride,
That nought of flesh its blow could bide:
A serpent's tortuous folds were seen
Twining it round; fit type, I ween,
Of him whose foul and subtle skill
First arm'd the shaft with pow'r to kill:
And from his belt a vizor hung,
In which sometimes he mix'd among
The gay and wanton sons of earth,
And deftly shar'd their wine and mirth.
Upon his head a canker'd crown
Grim o'er his naked brow did frown,
On which, instead of goodly stones
And pearls,---were dead men's teeth and

bones.

A vest of sable, rusty hue,

Hid his gaunt limbs from prying view;
But as it stream'd betimes in air,
Their form was seen,---hard, sinewy, bare;
The rigid skin, of flesh bereav'd,
Dark, shrivell'd, to the bones still cleav'd:
And though to grief his heart was strange,
And he was custom'd much to range
Where crimes, where sorrows did abound,
Where Slaughter stalk'd his dreary round,
And hail'd at dawn, with boist'rous glee,
The coming scenes of misery;
Yet now he falter'd,---with regret
Beheld such crowds for mischief met ;
And was, in truth, dispos'd to yield
The banquet of a hard-fought field,
And seek his maw to satisfy

With those who peaceful, ling'ring die,--

To bid the Ambitious Chiefs, who there
Had cater'd for him many a year,

For once the sav'ry feast forego,
And thus his moderation show.
But, as he ponder'd, straight began
The game of War; when off he ran
To aid the fight ;-- the fit was o'er ;---
He heard the deep-mouth'd cannons pour,
Their hellish glut with thund'ring roar,
And he could moralize no more.
Like mortals, he could safest stand
When no temptation was at hand;
And moralize most apposite

On what was wrong and what was right,
When to decide there was no need ;---
And when there was,---let Passion lead.

The particular account of the dreadful battle, which forms the chief object of the poem, we must reserve to our next Number.

It is not so much our design, in the department of Review, to animadvert upon the style and literary excellence of any work, as to exhibit to our readers its principles and tendency. But the author of The Carnival of Death will allow us to suggest, that lines somewhat poetical might have been employed than the following:.

more

"And crowns and sceptres do'n't infer Their wearers' souls superior."

Is there not also an incongruity in denominating the same assemblage of beings in one line. a grim host," and in the next a hideous group?"

POETRY.

Extract from SOUTHEY'S Address to A. S. COTTLE, on publishing his
Translation of Icelandic Poetry.

Ir is not strange that simple Man should rear
The grassy altar to the glorious Sun,

And pile it with spring flowers and summer fruits;
And when the glorious Sun smiled on their rites,
And made the landscape lovely, the warm heart
With no unholy zeal might swell the hymn
Of adoration-When the savage hears
The thunder burst, and sees the lurid sky
Glow with repeated fires; it is not strange
That he should hasten to his hut, and veil
His face, and dread the dæmon of the storm-
Nor that the ancient Poet, he who fed
His flock beside the stream of Helicon,

VOL. I. NEW SERIES.

Should let creative fancy people earth

With unseen powers, that, clad in darkness, roam
Around the world and mark the deeds of men-
But that the Priest with solemn mockery,
Or monstrous faith, should call on God to lead
His armies forth, and desolate and kill
And over the red banners of the war,
Even in the blessed name of Jesus, pour
Prayers of a bloodier hate than ever rose
At Odin's altar; or the Mexican,

The victim's heart still quivering in his grasp,
Rais'd at Mexitles' shrine-This is most foul,
Most rank, most blasphemous idolatry!
And better were it for these wretched men
With infant victims to have fed the fire
Of Moloch, in that hour when they shall call
Upon the hills and rocks to cover them.

SONNETS

By Mr. Bowring.

PEACE? shall the world out-wearied never see
Its universal reign?-Will States-will Kings
Put down those murderous and unholy things
Which fill the earth with blood and misery?
Will nations learn, that love-not enmity,
Is Heaven's first lesson-which, beneath the wings
Of mercy, brooding over land and sea,
Fills earth with joy by its soft ministerings?
"Twere a sad prospect-'twere a vista dark
As midnight-could this wearied mortal eye
Thro' the dim mists that veil futurity

Discern not that heaven-bright tho' distant spark
Lighted by prophecy-whose ray sublime

Sheds a soft gleam of hope o'er the dull path of time.

I hate that noisy drum-it is a sound

That's full of war and bondage-and I blush
That Liberty had ever cause to rush

Into a warrior's arms-that Right e'er found
Asylum in the furious field.-Not so
The holy crowns of genuine glory grow;
Not there should they who bear the badge serene
Of him who was the Prince of Peace be seen.
Can such his faithful followers be?-O no!
His laurels are not drenched in blood,-but green,
And beautiful as Spring :-his arms are love,
And mercy and forgiveness;-and with these,
He rules the nations' mighty destinies,
And gently leads us to our homes above.

LINES

Occasioned by reading the "Pictures of War."

THESE" Pictures" such heart-rending views disclose,
And paint so truly War's tremendous woes,
That every trembling nerve with horror thrills,
And sympathetic woe the bosom fills.

In mental vision we these scenes survey,
Where, like the tiger rushing on its prey,
The hostile armies in the strife engage;-
Aghast we stand amidst the battle's rage.
Destruction here his standard hath unfurl'd;
Warriors and chargers, in confusion hurl'd,
O'erspread the plain; what sights of woe are here!
Their agonizing shrieks distract the ear;
In vain their cries! no human aid is nigh;
The trembling peasants hence in terror fly.
Led on by rapine, lo, the conquerors haste,
Eager to lay a fruitful country waste;
While desolated towns and ruin'd fields
Are pledges of the joys that victory yields.

The wretched parents in sad anguish mourn
For him, by war's stern mandate from them torn,
Who once they fondly hoped would be their stay,
And guide their fainting steps in life's decay.
But who our tenderest sympathy shall claim
Like her who bears a Widow's mournful name?
Who, with her infants, still in tears deplore
The husband and the fathe:, now no more.
Insatiate War! from thee what evils rise!
Thy hand can disunite the tenderest ties ;
Can make a dreary waste, a desert wild,
Where virtue bloom'd, and cheerful plenty smil'd.

Not so the precepts which the Saviour taught,
Whose breast with pure benevolence was fraught:

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Glory to God! peace and good will on earth,"

Were sung by cherub-legions at His birth.

How strange! that they who bear the Christian name
Should e'er exult war's triumphs to proclaim!

Nor heed the declaration of their Lord,

That they, who take shall perish with the sword!"

Father of all! look down with pitying eye;
To realms of endless night let discord fly;
Bid every fierce and angry passion cease

And Jesus reign, triumphant, "Prince of Peace!"

CHARLOTTE RICHARDSON.

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