Che Disenthralled. HE had bowed down to drunkenness, An abject worshipper: The pride of manhood's pulse had grown Too faint and cold to stir : And he had given his spirit up To the unblessed thrall, And bowing to the poison cup, He gloried in his fall! There came a change-the cloud rolled off, And light fell on his brain- He shook the serpent folds away, He stood erect-returning pride And conscience sat in judgment, on His most familiar sin. The light of Intellect again And Reason, like a monarch sat 44 TO JOSEPH STURGE ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER. The honoured and the wise once more Within his presence came,― There may be glory in the might, The disenthralled shall find, Unto the Godlike mind! J. G. W. Co Joseph Sturge on the death of his sister. THINE is a grief, the depth of which, another, Yet o'er the waters, O my stricken brother! I lean my heart unto thee-sadly folding With even the weakness of my soul upholding I never knew, like thee, the dear departed; When in calm trust, the pure and tranquil hearted To JOSEPH STURGE ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER. 45 And on thy ear my words of weak condoling, The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling I will not mock thee with the poor world's common memory of a sainted woman With idle praise. With silence only as their benediction, Where in the shadow of a great affliction, Yet would I say what thy own heart approveth: Calling to Him, the dear one, whom He loveth, Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel Hath evil wrought, Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel The good die not! God calls our loved ones; but we lose not wholly They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly And she is with thee. In thy path of trial Still with the baptism of thy self-denial, Her locks are wet. Up, then, my brother! Lo the fields of harvest She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest, Thrust in thy sickle! England's toil-worn peasants, And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, J. G. W. Crue Rest. SWEET is the pleasure itself cannot spoil. Thou that would'st taste it, still do thy best,- "Tis the brook's motion, clear, without strife, Fleeing to ocean, after its life. Deeper devotion nowhere hath knelt, Fuller emotion heart never felt, 'Tis loving and serving the highest and best "Tis onward-unswerving-and this is True Rest. CHRISTIAN REGISTER. Che Bald Eagle. THIS distinguished bird, as he is the most beautiful of his tribe, in this part of the world, and the adopted emblem of our country, is entitled to particular notice. He has been long known to naturalists, being common to both continents; and occasionally met with from a very high northern latitude, to the borders of the torrid zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the sea, and along the shores and cliffs of our lakes and large rivers. Formed by nature for braving the severest cold; feeding equally on the produce of the sea, and of the land; possessing powers of flight,-capable of outstripping even the tempests themselves; unawed by anything but man, and, from the ethereal heights to which he soars, looking abroad at one glance, on an immeasurable expanse of forests, fields, lakes and ocean, deep below him; he appears indifferent to the little localities of change of seasons; as in a few minutes he can pass from summer to winter, from the lower to the higher regions of the atmosphere, the abode of eternal cold, and thence descend at will to the torrid or the arctic regions of the earth. He is therefore found at all seasons in the countries he inhabits; but prefers such places as have been mentioned above, from the great partiality he has for fish. In procuring these he displays, in a very singular manner, the genius and energy of his character, which is fierce, contemplative, daring, and tyrannical; attributes not exerted but on particular occasions; but when put forth, overpowering all opposition. Elevated on a high dead limb of some gigantic tree, that commands a wide view of the neighbouring shore and ocean, he seems calmly to contemplate the motions of the various feathered tribes that pursue their busy avocations below; the snow white gulls slowly winnowing the air; the busy |