And humbly blest the chastening hand
Which gave the final blow.

Then grieve not that her life is fled,
Her's is a home of peace,

While slumbering in that silent bed,
Where toil and sorrow cease.

We part, but 'tis again to meet,
And hail our blissful home,
When Christ from his high mercy-seat,
Shall cry, "Ye blessed, come.'

A WAR SCENE.

[From Basil Hall's Travels.]

The Evening after the Battle.

UNFORTUNATELY, we could not remain till the very last upon our elevated look-out station, from whence we had commanded so complete a view of this hard-fought field, being obliged to come down shortly after sunset, that we might get on board, if possible, before dark. We took the shortest way from the top of the hill by a little footpath, leading along a steep bank, till we gained the great Corunna high road. By this time the whole space between the field of battle and the town had become pretty well crowded with wounded men, mingled with stragglers of all kinds, wending their way, as well as they might, towards the point of embarkation.

The first person we met, on coming to the road, was an elderly officer, I think of the 50th regiment, partly supported by a private soldier, and partly leaning on his sword. We helped him to gain a seat near the door of a little cottage, which we could see had been used as a temporary

hospital, from the numerous wounded, dead, and dying men stretched all round it. This situation being on the face of the hill next the town, had not been exposed to the direct fire of the enemy, while the chance of any stray shots plunging into it, over the top of the ridge, seemed not great.

The old officer's face soon turned so pale, that a streak of blood flowing along his brow and cheek, though not broader than a thread, appeared as conspicuous as if it had been a line drawn on a sheet of paper. That he had received a serious wound, was evident; but we had not the least idea he was dying.

"I should like the doctor to look at my head," he said, and in a minute or two the surgeon came from the cottage. He took off the officer's cap, cut away some of the hair, looked closely at the wound, and then paused.

"Well-sir-what-say-you?" asked the wounded man, whose words dropped slowly and laboriously from his lips.

"This is no time to trifle, sir," replied the surgeon, for whom a dozen miserable sufferers were calling out; " and I am sorry to say your wound is mortal. It is my duty to that you have but a short time to live!"

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"And

Indeed! I feared so," groaned the poor man. yet,” he sighed, "I should like very much to live a little longer, if it were possible."

He spoke no more, but laid his sword on a large stone by his side, as gently as if its steel had been turned to glass, and that he was fearful of breaking it. What he meant by this action, we knew not; for he sunk almost immediately afterwards.

dead on the grass

On regaining the road, we were loudly appealed to by so many voices of men suffering from their wounds, and in despair of ever reaching the boats, that we knew not which way to turn, or what to do. At first we gave our arms to those nearest us who could walk; but on these wretched men failing, and others struggling to gain our assistance,

it became quite evident that we should never reach the shore if we did not close our ears to these supplications. In fact, we had almost resolved, hard-hearted as it may seem, to walk on as fast as we could, without heeding the wounded and dying, when a number of artillery waggons, sent out from the city, came galloping along, with orders to glean' all the sufferers who could not readily find their way alone.

up

As we came nearer to Corunna, we found this precaution had already been taken, so that such of the wounded people as we now fell in with on foot (and these were many hundreds) were trudging on, I can hardly call it merrily, but with a degree of animation, which, considering the frightful predicament of many of them, was truly wonderful. Generally speaking, indeed, the soldiers displayed a great degree of fortitude. We passed a cart filled with men, none of whom uttered a complaint, though I could observe more than one stream of blood trickling on the road through the openings between the planks.

BURIAL PLACES.

No. III.

THE tombs of illustrious men cannot be looked upon with indifference. The last narrow homes of princes, philosophers and poets, are worthy of a pilgrimage, and the time occupied in visiting them will not be wasted. If the spirit is susceptible of solemn impressions, the contemplation of the ashes of the great will not be without effect. The broken sceptre, or the unstrung lyre, which imagination engraves on their monuments do more than "point a moral or adorn a tale."

A large sarcophagus, or sepulchre, brought from Alexandria, in Egypt, and now deposited in the British museum, is said to have been the coffin of Alexander the Great. Those who have visited it, have doubtless wished this was true, since our moral sentiments could desire no better comment on the vanity of human wishes. Could we be sure that more than two thousand years ago, the conqueror of the world, in the pride of manhood, was deposited in this marble receptacle, it would indeed be a sublime study, to be reflected on again and again until we caught the full spirit of the inspired testimony, "man in his best state is altogether vanity. But the mathematical precision of historic research will not allow the tradition respecting this sarcophagus to be correct. A tomb of Alexander did exist, and was known to the ancients, but where it now is no tongue can tell. The poet Lucan, in his Pharsalia, gives an account of Cæsar's visit to this tomb. After describing the manner in which Cæsar viewed "the monuments of Macedonian power," he proceeds ;

"Careless, he runs their gods and temples o'er,
The monuments of Macedonian power;
But neither god, nor shrine, nor mystic rite,
Their city, nor her walls, his soul delight.
Their caves beneath his fancy chiefly led,
To search the gloomy mansions of the dead;
Thither with secret pleasure he descends,
And to the guide's recording tale attends.
There the vain youth who made the world his prize,
That prosperous robber, ALEXANDER, lies.
When pitying death, at length, had freed mankind,
To sacred rest his bones were here consigned :
His bones that better had been tossed and hurled,
With just contempt around the injured world.
But fortune spared the dead, and partial fate
For ages fixed his Pharian empire's date.
If e'er our long lost liberty return,
That carcase is reserved for public scorn.
Now it remains a monument confest,

How one proud man could lord it o'er the rest."

[Rowe.]

The tombs of great men of modern times, if destitute of the charm of antiquity, have the attractions of a deeper sympathy. After the bard of Avon has delighted us with his imperishable strains, we are prepared to gaze upon his resting place with more than ordinary emotions. Washington Irving, in the Sketch Book, has given us this simple statement respecting it. "The tomb of Shakspeare is in the chancel of the church of Stratford-on-Avon. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed upon it, said to have been written by himself, and which have in them something extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they shew that solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds:

'Good friend, for Jesus sake forbeare
To dig the dust inclosed here:

Blessed be he that spares these stones,
And cursed be he that moves my bones.'

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shakspeare, put up after his death, and considered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched forehead; and I thought I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he was as much characterized among his contemporaries, as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age at the time of his decease-fifty-three years; an untimely death for the world; for what fruit might not have been expected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favour."

Napoleon was execrable as a tyrant, but his fate has partially thrown his faults into the shade. His youth was the season of splendor and renown, his decline was characterized by humiliation and sorrow. Had he been allowed