Till his blood was drained by the desert; And, ruffled with triumph and power, He licked me and lay beside me To breath him a vast half-hour; Then down to the fountain we loitered, Where the antelopes came to drink,Like a bolt we sprang upon them, Ere they had time to shrink. We drank their blood and crushed them, That was a life to live for! Not this weak human life, The shadows of twilight grow As a warrior storms a fortress! Ere we were women and men, A BATTLE PICTURE. Did you ever see a battery take position? It hasn't the thrill of a cavalry charge, nor the grimness of a line of bayonets moving slowly and determinedly on, but there is a peculiar excitement about it that makes old veterans rise in the saddle and cheer. We have been fighting at the edge of the woods. Every cartridge box has been emptied once and more, and a fourth of the brigade has melted away in dead, wounded and missing. Not a cheer is heard in the whole brigade. We know that we are being driven foot by foot, and that when we break once more the line will go to pieces, and the enemy will pour through the gap. Here comes help. Down the crowded highway gallops a battery, withdrawn from another position to save ours. The field fence is scattered while you could count thirty, and the guns rush for the hill behind us. Six horses to a piece-three riders to each gun. Over dry ditches where a farmer could not drive a wagon, through clumps of bushes, over logs a foot thick, every horse on a gallop, every rider lashing his team and yelling. The sight behind makes us forget the foe in front. The guns jump two feet high as the heavy wheels strike rock or log, but not a horse slackens his pace, not a cannoneer loses his seat. Six guns, six caissons, sixty horses, eighty men race for the brow of the hill, as if he who reached it first was to be knighted. A moment ago the battery was a confused mob. We look again and the six guns are in position, the detached horses hurrying away, the ammunition chests open, and along our line runs the command, "Give them one more volley, and fall back We to support the guns!" have scarcely obeyed, when, boom! boom! boom! opens the battery, and jets of fire jump down and scorch the green trees under which we fought and despaired. The shattered old brigade has a chance to breathe for the first time in three hours as we form a line of battle behind the guns and lie down. What grim, cool fellows those cannoneers are! Every man is a perfect machine. Bullets plash dust into their faces, but they do not wince. Bullets sing over and around them, but they do not dodge. There goes one to the earth, shot through the head as he sponged his gun. The machinery loses just one beat-misses one cog in the wheel, and then works away again as before. Every gun is using short-fuse shell. The ground shakes and trembles-the roar shuts out all sound from a battle line three miles long, and the shells go shrieking into the swamp to cut trees short off-to mow great gaps in the bushes-to hunt out and shatter and mangle men until their corpses cannot be recognised as human. You would think a tornado was howling through the forest, followed by billows of fire, and yet men live through it-ay! press forward to capture the battery! We can hear their shouts as they form for the rush. Now the shells are changed for grape and cannister, and the guns are served out so fast that all reports blend into one mighty roar. The shriek of a shell is one of the wickedest sounds in war. but nothing makes the flesh crawl like the demoniac singing, purring, whistling grape shot, and the serpent-like hiss of cannister. Men's legs and arms are not shot through. but torn off. Heads are torn from bodies, and bodies cut in two. A round shot or shell takes two men out of the ranks as it crashes through. Grape and cannister mow a swathe and pile the dead on top of each other. Through the smoke we see a swarm of men. It is not a battle line, but a mob of men desperate enough to bathe their bayonets in the flame of the guns. The guns leap from the ground almost, as they are depressed on the foe, and shrieks, and screams, and shouts blend into one awful and steady cry. Twenty men out of the battery are down, and the firing is interrupted. The foe accepts it as a sign of wavering, and come rushing on. They are not ten feet away when the guns give them a last shot. That discharge picks living men off their feet, and throws them into the swamp a blackened, and bloody mass. Up now, as the enemy are among the guns! There is a silence of ten seconds, and then the flash and roar of more than 3000 muskets, and a rush forward with bayonets. For what? Neither on the right, nor left, nor in front of us is a living foe! There are corpses around us which have been struck by three, four, and even six bullets, and nowhere on this acre of ground is a wounded man! The wheels of the guns cannot move until the blockade of the dead is removed. Men cannot pass from caisson to gun without climbing over windrows of dead. Every gun and wheel is smeared with blood -every foot of grass has its horrible stain.Detroit Free Press. ANONYMOUS. THE JOURNEY OF A DAY, A PICTURE OF HUMAN LIFE; THE STORY OF OBIDAH. Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansera early in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited by desire; he walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills gradually rising before him. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise, he was fanned by the last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices; he sometimes contemplated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring: all his senses were gratified, and all care banished from the heart. the rewards of diligence, without suffering its fatigues. He, therefore, still continued to walk for a time, without the least remission of his ardour, except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music of the birds, whom the heat had assembled in the shade, and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that covered the banks on either side, or the fruit that hung upon the branches. At last the green path began to decline from its first tendency, and to wind among hills, and thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring with water-falls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and common track; but remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, which he supposed only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the common road. Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he suspected that he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that might sooth or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every cascade, and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. In these amusements the hours passed away uncounted, his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not towards what point to travel. He stood pensive and confused, afraid to go forward lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds, the day vanished from before him, and a sudden tempest gathered round his head. He was now roused by his danger, to a quick and painful remembrance of his folly; he now saw how happiness is lost, when ease is consulted; Thus he went on till the sun approached he lamented the unmanly impatience that his meridian, and the increasing heat preyed prompted him to seek shelter in the grove, upon his strength; he then looked round and despised the petty curiosity that led him about him for some more commodious path. on from trifle to trifle. While he was thus He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seem-reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of ed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation; thunder broke his meditation. he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. He did not, however, forget whither he was travelling, but found a narrow way bordered with flowers, which appeared to have the same direction with the main road, and was pleased that, by the happy experiment, he had found means to unite pleasure with business, and to gain He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power; to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated himself on the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of nature. He rose with confidence and tranquillity, and pressed on with his sabre in his hand, for the beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expiration; all the horrors of the darkness and solitude surrounded him; the winds roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills. Work'd into sudden rage by wint'ry show'rs, Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every moment drawing near to safety or to destruction. At length, not fear, but labour, began to overcome him; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he was on the point of lying down in resignation to his fate, when he beheld through the brambles the glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude. When the repast was over, 'Tell me," said the hermit, "by what chance thou hast been brought hither; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before." Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation. "Son," said the hermit, let the errors and follies, the dangers and escapes of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the strait road of piety towards the mansions of rest. In a short time we remit our fervour, and endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigour, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolved never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are then willing to enquire whether another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which we, for a while, keep in our sight, and to which we propose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example not to despair, but shall remember, that though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted; that the wanderer may at length return, after all his errors; and that he who implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose; commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence; and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life."-The Rambler. SAMUEL JOHNSON ANDREA DEL SARTO. (Called "The Perfect Painter.") TO HIS WIFE. But do not let us quarrel any more, Heart, or whate'er else, then goes on to prompt To-morrow how you shall be glad for this! And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. While she looks-no one's: very dear, no less! -You at the point of your first pride in me To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. How strange, now, looks the life He makes us lead! I feel He laid the fetter: let it lie! -It is the thing, Love! so such things should be- 1 can do with my pencil what I know, No sketches first, no studies, that's long past- In their vexed, beating, stuffed and stopped-up brain, This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. I know both what I want and what might gain- "Had I been two, another and myself, Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt The Urbinate who died five years ago. In this world, who can do a thing, will not- "Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, That I am something underrated here, Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. I surely then could sometimes leave the ground, In that humane great monarch's golden look,- You called me, and I came home to your heart. Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, I have known it all these years... (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, Too lifted up in heart because of it) As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, Is, whether you're-not grateful-but more pleased. Well let me think so. And you smile indeed! We built to be so gay with. God is just. How I could paint, were I but back in France, If he demurs; the whole should prove enough I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. I regret little, I would change still less. I took his coin, was tempted and complied, |