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as society advances. It is nécded' to withstand the encroachments of heartless and artificial manners, which make civilization so táme and uninteresting. It is néeded' to counteract the tendency of physical science, which, being nów sought, not as fòrmerly for intellectual gratification, but for multiplying bodily cómforts, requires a new development of imaginátion, taste, and poetry, to preserve men from sinking into an earthly, matérial, epicurèan life. DR. CHANNING.
BINGEN ON THE RHINE.
A soldier of the Lègion' lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's núrsing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood' ebbed
And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might sày. The dying soldier' faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never mòrel shall see my own, my native land:
Take a message and a tòken to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bìngen-at Bíngen on the Rhìne.
"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet' and crowd around,
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bràvely; and when the day was wón,
Full many a corsel lay ghastly pále, beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying! were some grown old in
The death-wound' on their gallant breasts, the last of many
But some were yoùng, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline;
And one had come from Bingen-fair Bíngen on the Rhine!
"Tell my móther that her other sons' shall comfort her old
And I' was aye a trùant bird' that thought his home a càge; For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him téll' of struggles fierco and wild;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hóard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword;
And with boyish love I hùng it where the bright light' used to shine,
On the cottage wall at Bíngen--calm Bíngen on the Rhine!
"Tell my sister not to weèp for me, and sob with drooping head,
When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant troad;
But to look upon them proùdly, with a calm and stedfast cýc,
For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a còmradel seek her love, I ask her in my name' To listen to him kíudly, without regrét or shame;
And to hang the old sword in its plàce (my father's sword
For the honour of old Bingen-dèar Bíngen on the Rhínc !
"There's another—not a síster; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the mérriment that sparkled in her cyc;
Too innocent for coquétry-too fond for idle scòrning; O friend, I fear the lightest heart' makes sometimes heáviest mourning!
Tell her the last night of my life' (for ero this moon be risen,
My body will be out of páin-my soul be out of prison) I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight' shínc
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!
"I saw the blue Rhine' sweep alòng; I heàrd, or scémed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing in chórus' sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant rìver, and up the slanting hill, That echoing chorus' soúnded, through the évening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly tálk
Down many a path beloved of yóre, and well remembered walk;
And her little hand' lay lìghtly, confìdingly in míne;
His voice grew faint and hòarser; his grásp' was childish weak;
His eyes put on a dying lóok; he síghed, and ceased to speak.
On the red sand of the battlefield, with bloody corpses strèwn; Yeá' càlmly on that dreadful scéne' her pàle light' seemed to shíne,
As it shone on distant Bíngen-fair Bíngen on the Rhine! HON. MRS. NORTON.
THE HEROIC SMITH.
[RICHARD NEWTON, an eminent divine, was born in Buckinghamshire in 1676, and died in 1753. He became the principal of Hart Hall in 1710, and was afterwards appointed to a canonry of Christ-church, Oxford. His works are, "University Education," "Pluralities Indefensible," "Sermons," &c.]
THE following circumstance took place about twenty years ago at a village in Germany. One afternoon a great number of the villagers were assembled in the large room of the inn. There was only one door to the room, and that stood
open. The village blacksmith-a good-natured, pious, brave-hearted man-sat near the door, talking pleasantly with some of his neighbours in the room.
All at once a large dog came and stood right in the doorway. He was a great powerful beast, with fierce, frightful look. His head hung down, his eyes were bloodshot, his great red tongue hung half out of his mouth, and his tail was dropped between his legs. As soon as the keeper of the inn saw him, he turned pale, and exclaimed, "Back, back! The dog is mad!" Then the women screamed, and there was great confusion in the room. There was no way out but by the door in which the dog stood, and no onc could pass him without being bitten.
"Stand back, my friends," cried the brave smith, "till I seize the dog; then hurry out while I hold him. It is better that one should perish than all."
As he said this, he seized the foaming beast with an iron grasp, and dashed him on the floor. Then a terrible struggle followed. The dog bit furiously on every side in a most frightful manner. His long teeth tore the arms and thighs of the heroic smith, but he would not let go his hold. Unmindful of the great pain it caused, and the horrible death which he knew must follow, with the grasp of a giant he held down the snapping, biting, howling brute, till all his friends had escaped in safety. Then he flung the halfstrangled beast from him against the wall, and dripping with blood and venomous foam, he left the room and locked the door. The dog was shot through the window, but what became of the brave but unfortunate smith?
The friends whose lives he had saved at the expense of his own, stood round him weeping. "Be quiet, my friends," he said, "do not weep for me, I have only done my duty. When I am dead, think of me with love; and now pray for me that God will not let me suffer long, or too much. I know I shall become mad, but I will take care that no harm comes to you through me."
He went to his shop, and took a strong chain, one end of which he rivetted with his own hands round his body, the
other end he fastened round the anvil so strongly that no carthly power could loose it. He then looked round on his friends and said, "Now it's done. You are all safe. I can't hurt you. Bring me food while I am well, and keep out of my reach when I am mad! The rest I leave with God."
Nothing could save the brave smith. Madness soon scized him, and he died after nine days of suffering. What a noble follow! What a real hero that was!
A PHILOSOPHER of the East, with a richness of imagery truly Oriental, describes the atmosphere as "a spherical shell which surrounds our planet to a depth which is unknown to us, by reason of its growing tenuity, as it is released from the pressure of its own superincumbent mass. Its upper surface cannot be nearer to us than fifty, and can scarcely be more remote than five hundred miles. It surrounds us on all sides, yet we see it not; it presses on us with a load of fifteen pounds on every square inch of surface of our bodies, or from seventy to one hundred tons on us in all, yet we do not so much as feel its weight. Softer than the softest down, more impalpable than the finest gossamerit leaves the cobweb undisturbed, and scarcely stirs the lightest flower that feeds on the dew it supplies; yet it bears the flects of nations on its wings around the world, and crushes the most refractory substances with its weight. When in motion, its force is sufficient to level the most stately forests and stable buildings with the earth- to raise the waters of the ocean into ridges like mountains, and dash the strongest ships to pieces like toys. It warms and cools by turns the earth and the living creatures that inhabit it. It draws up vapours from the sea and land, retains them dissolved in itself, or suspended in cisterns of clouds, and throws them down again as rain or dew when