lives. The writer referred to, and who penned the lines above extracted in eulogy of the British administration in India, admits that the nations, at least those inhabiting the country of the Five Rivers, were in the enjoyment, at an early period of their history, of a system of government well adapted to promote their interests as an independent people. He says, " Its form of government was a federation of chieftains, each independent of others, who met together at intervals to provide for their common safety, and furnish each his armed contingent for the public service." Their motto was Wa Gooroojee ha Kalsa-Victory to the state of Gooroo. In their religious creed they taught that all men were equal in the sight of God-that distinctions of caste were not a principle of faith—that differences of religion did not debar men from a common charity. Socially, they occupied a fair position,-industry and frugality were visible everywhere among them. This, in brief, seemed to be the condition of the people of India previous to being oppressed by taxes, and despoiled of their lands and their liberty by the conquering army of England, urged on by a ministry as false to its own nation as it was heartless and cruel to the inhabitants of India.

But it is not our present purpose to enter into a discussion of the merits or the demerits of this war, nor would we have referred to it at this time, except for the fact that the latest advices from India seem to present a condition of moral degeneracy among the people, growing out of British influence and conquest, which is unparalleled in infamy in the most barbarous ages.

UNDER THE STARS.

Under the stars-under the stars! How I shrink from their lightAnd my soul whose black scars They reveal to the night.

Under the stars-under the stars!

Like whirlwind to burst

Thro' their silvery bars

Or to sink ever curst.

Like a banner unrolled

Ere the battle's begun, But as black as each fold When the battle is won.

Under the stars-under the stars!
With a spot on my soul
That unmakes while it mars
All its beautiful whole.

Oh, God! from Thy path,

With that frown on Thy browWith the lightning's red wrath I am waiting Thee now.

Though unworthy to live,

Thou hast said with Thine eye,

Is there nought I could give
To be worthy to die?

BOYHOOD MEMORIES.

BY HORACE DRESSER.

A word once more with thee, my dear old river,
Thou seemest near though far away-

Let's talk of scenes gone by-forgotten never-
On memory's page to tell for aye!

The hours, the days, the months, on mission earth-way,
Have notched their kalends on the year-

Old Time for me hath brought another birth-day—
Their number now please lisp not here!

My natal day hath advent in November,
When woodlands, fields, and all look drear,
When thou art clad with leaves the frosts dismember,
And winds drive forth all dead and sere-
When winter's voice is borne upon the breezes,
The Storm King quits his prison caves,

And ruthless raves around, benumbs and freezes—
Transmutes to ice thy silvery waves.

Would I might stroll thy stream this day, dear river,
Renew my vows of love to thee:

The cold might chill-my limbs might shiver-
But then what joy would come to me!
Long time ago when but an infant fellow-
Mere child with fragile angle-rod,

I loved thy lullaby so soft and mellow,
And shores so oft my foot hath trod.

What cruel boy was I with dreadful rifle,
And still and slow and measured tread,

To take dear life away as if a trifle,

And make my victims fall quite dead!

No more the game that doth the copse inhabit,
Will I destroy or make afraid—

Nor partridge, quail, or snipe, or long-eared rabbit,
In fear shall roam the tangled glade.

These wild-these wayward deeds, All Gracious Heaven

To boyhood's heedless days belong-
Regard my prayer, and let me be forgiven,
Long since I feel how deep the wrong:
From all beneath-above-a truth I gather,
And by it seek to square my life-
Of all things thou art Universal Father-
A faith that ends all bloody strife.

How old art thou, bright stream, how many ages
Are veiled in Time's deep mysteries-
Where is the record of thy birth-the stages-
The cycles of thy centuries?

Thine age-a pyramid of years! Say whether
Thou began thy course of years,

When erst the stars of heaven all sang together
The mighty anthem of the sphere?

Methinks thou art twin born with ancient Tiber,
In which great Cæsar swam its wave-
There is a book, in Rome they call it Liber,
That says he cried, "I sink-O save!"
Imperial Cæsar drown in Rome's old river-
The world's great monarch cry for aid!
Despite the cold-the chills-what things soever,
I'd swim thy flood-aha-afraid!

Go forth where flow Italia's gentle rivers-
Where spread its sunny genial skies-
Where leafy Vallombrosa softly quivers,
With zephyr-airs-with fairy-sighs—
Translucent Arno's stream invites thee thither,
Baptize thee in its waves of light-

Till seen the beautiful return not hither-
View all that makes the landscape bright.

Old blissful river clear-I stay; will tarry—
Will listen to thy rippling tide;

All through this life my love for thee will carry,

And sleep at last near by thy side:

Thy flow will be, however, forth to ocean,

Thy kindred waters there to meet,

Where wave doth follow wave in ceaseless motion,
And billow doth its fellow greet!

Great Spirit! pray do thou affairs so order,

And give such course to each event,

My hearth may be on dear old river's border-
Elsewhere will I ne'er be content!

Peace be with thee, my dear, my native river-
Again, perchance, with thee I'll dwell—

There hail sweet home, calm hours, nor leave thee ever-
Till then, fair stream, adieu, farewell!

November 28, 1858.

Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit.