COWARDICE.

THE veriest coward upon earth

Is he who fears the world's opinion, Who acts with reference to its will, His conscience swayed by its dominion.

Mind is not worth a feather's weight,

That must with other minds be measured. Self must direct, and self control,

And the account in heaven be treasured.

Fear never sways a manly soul,

For honest hearts 'twas ne'er intended; They, only they, have cause to fear,

Whose motives have their God offended.

What will my neighbour say, if I

Should this attempt, or that, or t'other? A neighbour is most sure a foe, If he prove not a helping brother.

That man is brave who braves the world, When o'er life's sea his bark he steereth, Who keeps the guiding star in view,

A conscience clear, which never veereth.

THE WAR-SPIRIT.

WAR-SPIRIT! War-spirit! how gorgeous thy path, Pale earth shrinks with fear from thy chariot of wrath:

The King at thy beckoning comes down from his

throne,

To the conflict of fate the armed nations rush on, With the trampling of steeds, and the trumpet's wild

cry,

While the fold of their banners gleams bright o'er the

sky.

Thy glories are sought till the life-throb is o'er,
Thy laurels pursued, though they blossom in gore;
'Mid the ruins of columns and temples sublime,
The arch of the hero doth grapple with time;
The muse o'er thy form throws her tissue divine,
And history her annals emblazons with thine.

War-spirit! War-spirit! thy secrets are known,

I have looked on the field when the battle was doneThe mangled and slain in their misery lay,

And the vulture was shrieking and watching his prey; But the heart's gush of sorrow, how hopeless and sore, In the homes that those loved ones revisit no more.

I have traced out thy march by its features of pain, While famine and pestilence stalked in thy train, And the trophies of sin did thy victory swell,

And thy breath on the soul was the plague-spot of hell.

Death lauded thy deeds, and in letters of flame
The realm of perdition recorded thy name.

War-spirit! War-spirit! go down to thy place,
With the demons that thrive on the woe of our race;
Call back thy strong legions of madness and pride,
Bid the rivers of blood thou hast opened be dried-
Let thy league with the grave and Aceldama cease,
And yield the torn world to the angel of peace.

INANIMATE toys, utensils, seem to merit a kind of affection from us when they have been our companions through various vicissitude. I have often viewed my watch, standish, snuff-box, with a kind of tender regard; allotting them a degree of friendship, which there are some men who do not deserve:

"Midst many faithless only faithful found."

16

MARIE-ANTOINETTE.

THE queen seemed to be created by nature to contrast with the king, and to attract for ever the interest and pity of ages to one of those state dramas, which are incomplete unless the miseries and misfortunes of a woman mingle in them. Daughter of Maria Theresa, she had commenced her life in the storms of the Austrian monarchy. She was one of the children whom the Empress held by the hand when she presented herself as a supplicant before her faithful Hungarians, and the troops exclaimed, "We will die for our king, Maria Theresa." Her daughter, too, had the heart of a king. On her arrival in France, her beauty had dazzled the whole kingdom,—a beauty then in all its splendour. The two children whom she had given to the throne, far from impairing her good looks, added to the attractions of her person that character of maternal majesty which so well becomes the mother of a nation. The presentiment of her misfortunes, the recollection of the tragic scenes of Versailles, the uneasiness of each day somewhat diminished her youthful freshness. She was tall, slim, and graceful, a real daughter of Tyrol. Her naturally majestic carriage in no way impaired the grace of her movements; her neck rising elegantly and distinctly from her shoulders gave expression to every attitude.

The woman was perceptible beneath the queen, the tenderness of heart was not lost in the elevation of her destiny. Her light-brown hair was long and silky; her forehead, high and rather projecting, was united to her temples by those fine curves which give so much delicacy and expression to that seat of thought or the soul in women; her eyes of that clear blue which recall the skies of the North or the waters of the Danube; an aquiline nose, with nostrils open and slightly projecting, where emotions palpitate and courage is evidenced; a large mouth, brilliant teeth, Austrian lips, that is, projecting and well-defined; an oval countenance, animated, varying, impassioned, and the ensemble of these features replete with that expression impossible to describe which emanates from the look, the shades, the reflections of the face, which encompasses it with an iris like that of the warm and tinted vapour which bathes objects in full sunlight— the extreme loveliness which the ideal conveys, and which by giving it life increases its attraction. With all these charms, a soul yearning to attach itself, a heart easily moved, but yet earnest in desire to fix itself; a pensive and intelligent smile, with nothing of vacuity in it, nothing of preference or mere acquaintanceship in it, because it felt itself worthy of friendships. Such was Marie-Antoinette as a woman.