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Peace Convention at Brussels.

STILL in thy streets oh Paris! doth the stain
Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain;
Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through,
And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew,
When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread,
At a crowned murderer's beck of license fed
The yawning trenches with her noble dead;
Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls
The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls,
And, leagued to crush thee, on the Danube's side,
The bearded Croat and Bosniak spearman ride;
Still in that vale where Himalaya's snow
Melts round the cornfields and the vines below,
The Sheikh's hot cannon, answering ball for ball
Flames in the breach of Moultan's shattered wall;
On Chenab's side the vulture seeks the slain,
And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again.
"What folly, then," the faithless critic cries,
With sneering lip, and wise, world-knowing eyes,
"While fort to fort, and post to post repeat,
The ceaseless challenge of the war-drum's beat,
And round the green earth, to the church bell's chime,
The morning drum-role of the camp keeps time,

To dream of peace amidst a world in arms,

Of swords to plough-shares changed by scriptural charms,
Of nations, drunken with the wine of blood,
Staggering to take the Pledge of Brotherhood,
Like tipplers answering Father Mathew's call-
The sullen Spaniard, and the mad-cap Gaul,
The bull-dog Briton, yielding but with life,
The Yankee swaggering with his bowie knife,

PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS.

The Russ, from banquets with the vulture shared,
The blood still dripping from his amber beard,
Quitting their mad Berserker dance, to hear
The dull, meek droning of a drab-coat seer;
Leaving the sport of Presidents and Kings,
Where men for dice each titled gambler flings,
To meet alternate on the Seine and Thames,
For tea and gossip, like old country dames!
No! let the cravens plead the weakling's cant,
Let Cobden cipher, and let Vincent rant,
Let Sturge preach peace to democratic throngs,
And Burritt, stammering through his hundred tongues,
Repeat, in all, his ghostly lessons o'er,

Timed to the pauses of the battery's roar;
Check ban or Kaiser with the barricade
Of "Olive-leaves" and Resolutions made,

Spike guns with pointed scripture-texts, and hope
To capsize navies with a windy trope;
Still shall the glory and the pomp of War
Along their train the shouting millions draw;
Still dusty Labour to the passing Brave
His cap shall doff, and Beauty's kerchief wave;
Still shall the bard to Valour tune his song,
Still Hero-worship kneel before the Strong;
Rosy and sleek, the sable-gowned divine,
O'er his third bottle of suggestive wine,
To plumed and sworded auditors, shall prove
Their trade accordant with the Law of Love;

And Church for State, and State for Church shall fight,
And both agree, that Might alone is Right!"

Despite of Sneers like these, oh, faithful few,
Who dare to hold God's word and witness true,
Whose clear-eyed faith transcends our evil time,
And, o'er the present wilderness of crime,

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PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS.

Sees the calm future with its robes of green,

Its fleece-flecked mountains, and soft streams between,-
Still keep the path which duty bids ye tread,
Though worldly wisdom shake the cautious head;
No truth from Heaven descends upon our sphere,
Without the greeting of the sceptic's sneer;
Denied, and mocked at, till its blessings fall,
Common as dew and sunshine, over all.

Then, o'er Earth's war-field, till the strife shall cease,
Like Morven's harpers, sing your song of peace;
As in old fable rang the Thracian's lyre,
Midst howl of fiends and roar of penal fire,
Till the fierce din to pleasing murmurs fell,
And love subdued the maddened heart of hell.
Lend, once again, that holy song a tongue,
Which the glad angels of the Advent sung,
Their cradle-anthem for the Saviour's birth,
Glory to God, and peace unto the earth!
Through the mad discord send that calming word
Which wind and wave on wild Genesereth heard,
Lift in Christ's name His Cross against the Sword!
Not vain the vision which the prophets saw,
Skirting with green the fiery waste of war,
Through the hot sand-gleam, looming soft and calm
On the sky's rim, the fountain-shading palm.
Still lives for Earth, which fiends so long have trod,
The great hope resting on the truth of God—

Evil shall cease, and Violence pass away,

And the tired world breathe free through a long Sabbath day.

J. G. WHITTIER.

RICH sunshine lives beyond this night of frost;
Our troubles are not worth the tears they cost.

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God.

FROM THE RUSSIAN ANTHOLOGY.

On Thou eternal one! whose presence bright,
All space doth occupy; all motion guide ;
Unchanged through time's all devasting flight;
Thou only God! There is no God beside!
Being above all beings! Mighty One!

Whom none can comprehend, and none explore ;
Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone:
Embracing all-supporting-ruling o'er—
Being whom we call God and know no more!

In its sublime research, philosophy

May measure out the ocean-deep-may count The sands, or the sun's rays-but, God! for Thee There is no weight or measure: none can mount Up to thy mysteries. Reason's brighest spark,

Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try To trace thy counsels infinite and dark;

And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high,
E'en like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness, didst call

First chaos, then existence-Lord, on Thee

Eternity had its foundation :-all

Sprung forth from Thee-of light, joy, harmony,

Sole origin all life, all beauty thine,

Thy word created all, and doth create;

Thy splendour fills all space with rays divine.

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! Glorious! Great Life giving, life sustaining Potentate!

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Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround:
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath:
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death!
As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze,

So suns are born; so worlds spring forth from Thee:
And, as the spangles in the sunny rays.

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry

Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise.

A million torches, lighted by thy hand,

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss:
They own thy power, accomplish thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? piles of crystal light,
A glorious company of golden streams,
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright-

Suns, lighting systems with their joyour beams?
But Thou to these art as the noon to night.

Yes, as a drop of water in the sea,

All this magnificence in Thee is lost!

What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee?
And what am I then? Heaven's unnumbered host,
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed

In all the glory of sublimest thought,
Is but an atom in the balance, weighed

Against thy greatness-is a cypher brought
Against infinity! What am I then? Nought!

Nought! But the effluence of thy light divine,
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too;

Yes in my spirit doth thy spirit shine,

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.

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