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long been raging-" the abomination of desolation standing where it ought not." But before all and above all other associations and memories-whether of glorious men or glorious deeds, or glorious places-its voice is ever of Union and Liberty, of the Constitution and the Laws.

The Song of the Camp.

"Give us a song !" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said ·
"We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon:

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Lawrie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,—

Their battle-eve confession.

Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day. Somebody's darling, so young and so brave, Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips, cf delicate mold—
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow,
Brush all the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now,
Somebody's darling is stiff and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer, soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,
They were somebody's pride you know.
Somebody's hand hath rested there;
Was it a mother's, soft and white?

And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in the waves of light?

God knows best! He was somebody's love, Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above,

Night and noon on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave and grand Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's waiting and watching for him, Yearning to hold him again to their heart, And there he lies, with his blue eyes dim,

And the smiling, child-like lips apart.

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I am charged with pride and ambition. The charge is true, and glory in its truth. Who ever achieved any thing great in letters, arts or arms, who was not ambitious? Cæsar was not more ambitious than Cicero. It was but in another way. All greatness is born of ambition. Let the ambition be a noble one, and who shall blame it? I confess I did once aspire to be queen, not only of Palmyra, but of the East. That I am. I now aspire to remain so. Is it not an honorable ambition? Does it not become a descendant of the Ptolemies and of Cleopatra? I am applauded by you all for what I have already done. You would not it should have been less.

But why pause here? Is so much ambition praiseworthy, and more criminal? Is it fixed in nature that the limits of this empire should be Egypt on the one hand, the Hellespont and the Euxine on the other? Were not Suez and Armenia more natural limits? Or hath empire no natural limit, but is broad as the genius that can devise, and the power that can win? Rome has the West. Let Palmyra possess the East. Not that nature prescribes this and no more. The gods prospering, and I swear not that the Mediterranean shall hem me in upon the west, or Persia on the east. Longinus is right-I would that the world were mine. I feel, within, the will and the power to bless it were it so.

Are not my people happy? 1ook upon the past and the present, upon my nearer and remoter subjects, and ask nor fear the answer. Whom have I wronged?—what province have I oppressed?—what city pillaged?-what region drained with taxes?-whose life have I unjustly taken, or estates coveted or robbed ?-whose honor have I wantonly assailed?-whose rights, though of the weakest and poorest, have I trenched upon ?—I dwell, where I would ever dwell, in the hearts of my people. It is written in your faces, that

I reign not more over you than within you. throne is not more power than love.

The foundation of my

Suppose now my ambition add another province to our realm. Is it an evil? The kingdoms already bound to us by the joint acts of ourself and the late royal Odenatus, we found discordant and at war. They are now united and at peace. One harmonious whole has grown out of hostile and sundered parts. At my hands they receive a common justice and equal benefits. The channels of their commerce have I opened, and dug them deep and sure. Prosperity and plenty are in all their borders. The streets of our capital bear testimony to the distant and various industry which here seeks its market.

This is no vain boasting; receive it not so, good friends. It is but truth. He who traduces himself, sins with him who traduces another. He who is unjust to himself, or less than just, breaks a law, as well as he who hurts his neighbor. I tell you what I am, and what I have done, that your trust for the future may not rest upon ignorant grounds. If I am more than just to myself, rebuke me. If I have overstepped the modesty that became ine, I am open to your censure, and will bear it.

But I have spoken that you may know your queen, not only by her acts, but by her admitted principles. I tell you then that I am ambitious, that I crave dominion, and while I live will reign. Sprung from a line of kings, a throne is my natural seat. I love it. But I strive, too, you can bear me witness that I do, that it shall be, while I sit upon it, an honored, unpolluted seat. If I can, I will hang a yet brighter glory around it.

William Ware.

Portia's Speech on Mercy.

The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed-
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown.

His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings.
But mercy is above this sceptered sway,
It is enthroned in the heart of kings-
It is an attribute to God himself.

And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all
To render the deeds of mercy.

Shakspeare.

The Bells.*

Hear the sledges with the bells,

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells,

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells,

Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!

Through the balmy air of night,

How they ring out their delight!

From the molten golden notes,

And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

*The compiler has taken the liberty of omitting many repetitions, believing that the ordinary reader will have less trouble in the rendering, while the elocutionist may insert them at will.

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