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I sought my couch, but not to sleep;
New thoughts were coursing strong and deep
My wild impulsive passion-heart;
I could not rest; my heart was moved,
My iron will forgot its part,
And I wept like a child reproved.
Never was Christian more devout,
Never was lowlier heart than mine,
Never has pious Moslem yet,
When bearded Muezzin's holy shout
Has echoed afar from minaret,
Knelt lowlier down to saint or shrine,
Than knelt that penitent soul of mine.


I lay and pictured me a life
Afar from cold reproach or stain,
Or annals dark of blood and strife,
From deadly perils or heart-pain;
And at the breaking of the morn
I swung my arms from off the horn,
And turned to other scenes and lands
With lightened heart and whitened hands.





OU have now two wars before you, of which you

must choose one, for both you cannot support. The war against America has hitherto been carried on against her alone, unassisted by any ally; notwithstanding she stood alone, you have been obliged uniformly to increase your exertions, and to push your efforts in the end to the extent of your power, without being able to bring it to any favorable issue. You have exerted all your force hitherto without effect, and you cannot now divide a force found already inadequate to its object.

2. My opinion is for withdrawing your forces from America entirely, for a defensive war you never can think of; a defensive war would ruin this nation at any time and in any circumstances. An offensive war is pointed out as proper for this country; our situation points it out, and the spirit of the nation impels us to attack rather than defense: attack France, then, for she is your object. The nature of the war with her is quite different.

The war against America is against your own countrymen-you have stopped me from saying against your fellow-subjects ; that against France is against your inveterate enemy and rival.

3. Every blow you strike in America is against yourselves; it is against all ideas of reconciliation, and against your own interest, though you should be able, as you never will, to force them to submit. Every stroke against France is of advantage to you; the more you lower the scale in which France lies in the balance, the more your own rises, and the more the Americans will be detached from her as useless to them. Even your own victories over America are in favor of France, from what they must cost you in men and money. Your victories over France will be felt by her ally. America must be conquered in France; France never can be conquered in America.

4. The war of the Americans is a war of passion; it is of such a nature as to be supported by the most powerful virtues—love of liberty and of country; and, at the same time, by those passions in the human heart which give courage, strength, and perseverance to man—the spirit of revenge for the injuries you have done them; of retaliation for the hardships you have inflicted on them; and oi opposition to the unjust powers you have exercised over them.

5. Everything combines to animate them to this war and such a war is without end; for, whatever obstinacy enthusiasm ever inspired man with, you will now find it in America. No matter what gives birth to that enthusiasm,

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whether the name of religion or of liberty, the effects are the same; it inspires a spirit that is unconquerable, and solicitous to undergo difficulty, danger, and hardship; and as long as there is a man in America, a being formed such as we are, you will have him present himself against you in the field.

6. The war in France is of another sort; the war in France is a war of interest. It was her interest first induced her to engage in it, and it is by that interest she will measure its continuance.


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Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well;
Into the jaws of death,
Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.


Flashed all their sabers bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered !
Plunged in the battery-smoke,
Right through the line they broke:
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the saber-stroke,

Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back; but not

Not the six hundred.


Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered :
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them

Left of six hundred.


When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,-

Noble six hundred !



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URIOSITY is a passion very favorable to the love of

study, and a passion very susceptible of increase by cultivation. Sound travels so many feet in a second; and light travels so many feet in a second. Nothing more probable: but you do not care how light and sound travel. Very likely: but make yourself care; get up, shake yourself well, pretend to care, make believe to care, and very soon you will care, and care so much, that you will sit for hours thinking about light and sound, and be extremely angry with any one who interrupts you in your pursuits ; and tolerate no other conversation but about light and sound; and catch yourself plaguing every body to death who approaches you, with the discussion of these subjects.

2. I am sure that a man ought to read as he would grasp a nettle: do it lightly, and you get molested; grasp it with all your strength, and you feel none of its asperities. There is nothing so horrible as languid study; when you sit looking at the clock, wishing the time was over, or that somebody would call on you and put you out of your misery. The only way to read with any efficacy, is to read so heartily, that dinner-time comes two hours before you expected it.

3. To sit with your Livy before you, and hear the geese cackling that saved the Capitol; and to see with your own eyes the Carthaginian sutlers gathering up the rings of the Roman knights after the battle of Cannæ, and heaping them into bushels; and to be so intimately present at the actions you are reading of, that when anybody knocks at the door, it will take you two or three seconds to determine whether you are in your own study, or in the plains of Lombardy, looking at Hannibal's weather-beaten face, and admiring the splendor of his single eye; this is the only kind of study which is not tiresome; and almost the only kind which is not useless: this is the knowledge

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