THE HEIGHTS OF ABRAHAM.

THE moon had drawn her watchful eye
From Montmorency's silver wave,
And in their radiant homes on high,
Imprisoned by the curtained sky,

The stars, unseen, their splendor gave.
And wild St. Lawrence' waters rolled
More proudly 'neath the keels that bore
(At head of England's chosen bold,)
One of the laurel-crowned of war.

No martial notes from trump or horn
Were on the midnight breezes borne,
When with his fairy fleet of war

Sought France' dread foe her hostile shore;
No bugle-blast rang through the air,
Waved not St. George's banner there-
But swift and silent as the gale
That sped them, that flotilla frail
Went down the darkened tide;
While on the leading prow, with eye
That told of hopes and projects high,
Stood Wolfe, in lonely pride.

Onward they sped-no sound was heard
Throughout that brave, devoted band,
Save the half-sighed, half-whispered word
That told their daring chief's command.
By the dark wave's phosphorent beam,
Who saw them as they onward flew,
Had thought he stood by Stygian stream,
And saw grim Charon's shadowy crew.

Not guardless was Quebec's wide coast,
Nor slept they at their fearful post,
On Abraham's dizzy heights:
Yet was that shore by foemen won,
Nor pealed there forth one signal gun,
Nor blazed the beacon lights.

Enveloped in night's rayless pall,
Frowned fearfully the tow'ring wall
Of Nature's fortress on that train;
That wall, that fortress, frowned in vain :
Onward they came, as comes the storm
That gathers o'er the mountain's head,
When cloud by cloud its forces form
In one vast volume, dark and dread.

The sun, when last his evening light
Looked down on Abraham's guarded height,
Saw only an unpeopled plain,

Where by his silent cannon stood

The sentinel in gloomy mood,

And from the cliff's bright summit viewed

His glowing splendor wane.

The sun returning found not there
That sent'nel at his guarded post,
But saw beneath the colors fair,
That floated in the mountain air,
Old England's bannered host,
In many a frowning squadron set,
Whose glittering steel and bayonet,
And sheathless swords, and armor bright,
Flashed proudly back his beams of light.

VOL. VII.

A death-like silence is the dirge

That wails the coming earthquake's dead.
Such was the pause on Abraham's height,
While in their dread array of might,

They wait the signal to advance;

Then rang the clarion wild and high,

And 'Wolfe and England!' rent the sky,

And 'Count Montcalm for France!'

As when by counter-currents driven,

Fierce storm-clouds meet athwart the heaven,

And mingle into one;

While frequent flashes gild the air,
And the loud thunder rolls afar,
So was that fight begun.

Blaze followed blaze, roar answered roar,
And from St. Lawrence' farthest shore
Responsive echoes rung;
Bounded the frighted wild-deer by,
And from his eyry lone and high
The startled eagle sprung.

Nor least amid the varied tones
Of charging shouts and dying groans,
The savage war-whoop rose:
While gliding forms like sprites were seen,
With painted face and earthless mien,
Mingling with England's foes.

And who is he, the youth whose plume
Waves foremost in the ranks of death?
Whose sword is shunned as surer doom

Than waits upon the Upas' breath?

From rank to rank, from post to post,
Through England's lines his steed is spurr'd,
And where the battle rages most,

Above its din his voice is heard.

"Tis Wolfe-nor scathless has he passed

Amid the death-winged balls that fly

Like hail before the summer blast:
Alas! not all could pass him by.

That cry was heard again— again
It thundered o'er the battle-plain:
'For Wolfe and England!' rang the cry,
While faithful echo answered still,
From rock to rock, from hill to hill;
So wildly rose those shouts and high,
It seemed the very vault of Heaven
Had been by acclaiming voices riven.

New life a moment filled his frame,
And haply o'er his spirit came
Some sunny visions of his fame,
Gilding the clouds of death;
His eye unearthly language spoke,
One smile on his pale lips awoke,
And with his failing breath,

In whispered accents, he replied

To those victorious shouts - and died!

P. H. M.

A DIALOGUE ON SYMPATHIES.

SCEPTICUS. Why so thoughtful, my friend? Are you forming some new theory, or as is too often your wont, endeavoring to explain some of the absurdities of the old schools?

THEORETICUS. Neither. I have just laid down Southey's Memoirs of Wesley, and was attempting to fathom his idea of the cause of the strange actions and sensations of the Methodists, when under the 'influence of the Spirit.' You remember he pronounces it to be a physical disease, and imparted involuntarily from one individual to another.

SCEPT. Yes, I recollect well an instance he gives of this disease in the case of two persons who were seized with strong pain, and constrained to roar for the disquietness of their hearts,' but who shortly after burst forth in a song of praise; apparently no difficult matter for those possessed of strong lungs, and capable of deception in so serious a subject.

THEO. There is no question but that many affect these extravagancies, for the purpose of attracting attention; but the story of the satirizing

Quaker should make us hesitate before deciding every case to be imposture. He was present at a meeting, inveighed against what he called the dissimulation of these creatures, caught the contagious emotion himself, and even while he was biting his lips and knitting his brows, dropped down as if he had been struck by lightning.' I was present at one of their forest-meetings but lately, and was perfectly convinced that fraud is not the only explanation.

SCEPT. You caught the contagion, I suppose, and are about to silence me by your own experience?

THEO. No, though had I been affected, it would have been hardly more than natural, there was so much to excite even apathy to enthusiasm. It was a most striking and fit scene for arousing the imagination, and awakening the most solemn feelings. I wonder not at their fondness for these assemblies. Figure to yourself a dense forest of tall noble pines, lighted with fires and torches, a series of tents circularly arranged, and forming an area filled with a mass of human beings gathered to the worship of their God. The fitful light flashes irregularly over a multitude of anxious countenances, already trembling with the irritability of expected excitement, and shows the dark foliage of the trees struggling into sight in the distance, while beyond lies the blackness of night. The voice of prayer, the solemn song of praise, the consciousness that they are worshipping their Maker in his grandest temple, draw near their hearts to a sympathy with the earnest appeals from the pulpit, while every object of the strange and picturesque scene prepares their nerves for the greatest extravagancies.

SCEPT. A fit time and place, indeed, for calling from the weaknesses of our nature that sense of religion which should owe its origin to higher and purer sources than such artificial auxiliaries.

THEO. Spare your sneer. tending about the principle, of these assemblies. I remembered the I am speaking of the effect, not conremark of the biographer of Wesley, that under his preaching some were seized with trembling, others sank down and uttered loud and piercing cries, and others fell into a species of agony,' and I determined to observe for myself whether hypocrisy would not explain these extraordinary physical appearances. A beautiful girl sat near me, too young, and fair, and holy for artifice. expression, a light of purity in her eye, betokening a spirit above all There was a truth in her show or pretence of feeling. As the discourse commenced in a mild and sober strain, gradually became more persuasive and energetic, the color rose to her cheek, and she leaned forward, gazing steadfastly at the speaker. He alluded to the horrors of eternal woe, and her look became imploring. He appealed to the young, and the tear stood in her eye. With fervid eloquence he called upon them to consecrate their lives to Heaven; the finely curved lip quivered, the muscles of the face trembled, the delicate hand was violently clenched. announced the doom of the unrepentant; her eyes burned like livid coals; the countenance was distorted; and as he concluded, thus their souls shall die!' she sprung up convulsively, her arms were tossed wildly in the air, as if impelled by a shock from a galvanic battery, a scream shot from her lips, and she sunk, weak and fainting, on the earth.

SCEPT. Well, are you prepared, from this exhibition, to coincide with Coleridge as to the possibility of the existence of animal magnet

ism? I should think such a conclusion rather rashly and hastily drawn. There is nothing new in these cases of physical excitement. They are only the effect of a sympathy between the mind and the body, the ordinary result of an intensity of thought acting on the frame. The aroused energy of the orator produces an eloquence and power of gesture as well as of language. The hot fury of the soldier gives an almost superhuman force to his blows. The high-wrought enthusiastic ambition of Napoleon endued him with a hardihood and strength under the fatigues of the African desert, when many an Herculean form sunk faint and powerless. A curious instance is afforded of this sympathy, in the account which is given of a knight upon whom, though pardoned, it was determined to inflict the disgrace of proceeding to the scaffold. Upon being blind-folded, instead of the axe, a stream of cold water was poured on his neck. Upon taking off the bandage, they found he had expired-a victim to imagination.

THEO. True, all this is owing to sympathy; but whence does this sympathy proceed? Cannot this influence be accounted for on physical grounds? May not some subtle matter, generated by mental action, pervade the system, and in periods of excitement be produced and discharged so abundantly as to cause extraordinary phenomena ?

SCEPT. Ridiculous! In your rage for explanation, you are falling into an adoption of the antiquated theory of animal spirits a system erected, like most of the old speculations, as a dernier resort of ignorance, and long since contemned in true philosophy.

THEO. I dislike your hasty condemnation of ancient systems, for there were many visions of the morning of knowledge which time has realized, and many more long since censured as false whose verification hereafter will convince us that dreams, at least dreams of philosophy, may be prophetic.

SCEPT. I imagined rightly, then: you are indeed a believer in that absurd theory?

THEO. I do in truth think there is much consideration to be attached to it, though I would by no means carry it to so fanciful an extent. There appears to be much probability in Dr. Arnott's suggestion, that the brain is an electric pile, producing by its repeated discharges, the pulsations of the heart, an idea which is sanctioned also by Sir John Herschel, who supposes it to be analogous to the dry pile of De Luc." An apparatus of this kind made by Mr. Singer, affords an apt and beautiful illustration of the theory. By the action of piles, two bells are regularly struck by a ball suspended between them, and thus a ringing may be continued for years.

SCEPT. Were the brain capable of producing these electrical effects, the beating of the heart might possibly be accounted for on the same principle; but you do not mean to task my credulity, I hope, by asserting that there are metallic plates, acting as dry piles, in the head?

THEO. By no means; but you forget the experiments of Lagrave and Baconis, who formed piles of galvanic power not only from vegetables, but also by alternate layers of muscle and brain.† Galvani, by

*Discourse on the study of Natural Philosophy, p. 257. + Journal de Physique, 56, 235.