Jupiter was to reign over heaven; and he was said to hold his court, or council of the gods, on the top of Olympus, a mountain in Thessaly. He is called, by the ancient poets, the king of gods and men; and the eagle is represented as being the bearer of his thunderbolts. Neptune, the god of the sea, is represented with a trident, or fork with three teeth, in his hand, instead of a sceptre. He was supposed to be drawn in a chariot by sea-horses, with his son, Triton, blowing a trumpet made of shell, and dolphins playing round him.

The dominions of Pluto, the god of the infernal regions, were called Tartarus and Elysium. Tartarus was the place where the souls of the wicked were punished, and Elysium was the scene of perpetual happiness allotted to the good. The passage from the earth to these regions was across the river A'cheron, over which the departed spirits were conveyed by an old boatman, named Charon; and the further bank was also guarded by a dog with three heads, named Cerberus. There were two remarkable rivers of hell; one named Styx, which the gods used to swear by when they intended to make their oath very solemn; and another named Lethe, which caused whoever bathed in it, to forget what was past.

Mars, said to be the son of Jupiter, was the god of war. Apollo, likewise the son of Jupiter, was the god of music, poetry, and medicine. He is also represented as driving the chariot of the sun, drawn by four horses abreast; or rather, he was the sun itself. A story is told of him, that as a mark of affection, he intrusted this chariot one day to his son, Phaeton, who was killed by being thrown out of it, but not till after he had set a part of the earth on fire.

Apollo is also called Phoebus, and Hyperion; and is represented as a beautiful young man without a beard, and with graceful hair. Mercury, a son of Jupiter, was the messenger of the gods; and is therefore represented with wings to his cap and his feet. He was said to be the inventor of letters, and hence he is the god of eloquence; and was the god of trade, and thence also of thieves. He was called also Hermes; and is represented as carrying a wand, called caduceus, with two serpents twisted round it.

Vulcan, the god of fire and smiths, was the artificer of heaven; and made the thunderbolts of Jupiter, and the armor and palaces of the gods. His name and occupation are supposed to be derived from some obscure tradition of Tubal-Cain, one of the descendants of Cain, who was an instructor of every artificer in brass and iron. He once, as the story is told, offended Jupiter, who kicked him out of heaven, and falling on the island of Lemnos, he broke his leg, and was lame ever after. It is said that one of his principal forges was within Mount Etna. He is called also Mul'ciber.

The foregoing are the principal gods of this strange system of mythology, but there were many of a second or still lower order.

Thus, Bac'chus was the god of wine, and was crowned with leaves of the vine and the ivy. E'olus was the god of the winds: the north wind was called Boʻreas, the south wind Auster, the east wind Eūrus, and the west wind Zephyrus. Momus was the god of satire, and likewise of laughter and jokes. Plutus was the god of riches. Hymen was the god of marriage: he is represented with the burning torch. Cupid was the god of love: he is represented as a beautiful child, but blind or hoodwinked, and carries a bow and arrows.

Jānus, a god with two faces, looking forward and backward, had a temple which was open in time of war, and shut in peace. Esculapius was an inferior god of medicine, below Apollo: he is represented as accompanied by a serpent, which was thought the most long-lived of all animals. Pan was the god of shepherds; his lower parts have the figure of a goat; and he is represented as having horns, and as carrying a musical instrument, similar to that now called Pan's pipes. There were other rural deities, called Satyrs, Fauns, and Sylvans; their figures were half man and half goat, and they dwelt chiefly in forests.

Every river, also, was supposed to have its own god; who was drawn with a long beard, a crown of reeds, and leaning on an urn. There were likewise a great number of dĕmi-gods, or half-gods, who were supposed to have a god for their father, and a woman for their mother: the principal one of these was Hercules, who was accounted the god of strength, from his having performed some wonderful undertakings, called his Twelve Labors. He is represented leaning on a large club, and wearing a lion's skin.

BALDWIN.

CXXVI.-ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER.

MAGNIFICENT creature! so stately and bright!
In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight;
For what hath the child of the desert to dread,
Wafting up his own mountains that far-beaming head;
Or bōrne like a whirlwind down on the vale!
Hail! king of the wild and the beautiful!-hail!
Hail! idol divine! whom nature hath borne

O'er a hundred hill tops since the mists of the morn,

Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and moor,
As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore:
For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free,
Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee.

Up! up to yon cliff! like a king to his throne!
O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone-
A throne which the eagle is glad to resign,

Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine.

There the bright heather springs up in love of thy breast,
Lo! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest;
And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill!—
In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers lie still !—
Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight,
Like the arms of the pine on your shelterless height,
One moment-thou bright appârition-delay,
Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day.

His voyage is o'er !-As if struck by a spell,
He motionless stands in the hush of the dell;
There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast,
In the midst of his pastime enamored of rest.
A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race-
A dancing ray chained to one sunshiny place-
A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven-
A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven.

Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee:
Magnificent prison enclosing the free;

With rock-wall encircled-with prec'ipice crowned—
Which awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound.
'Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth keep
One bright spot of green for her favorite's sleep;
And close to that covert, as clear to the skies
When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies,
Where the creature at rest can his image behold,
Looking up through the radiance as bright and as bold.

Yes: fierce looks thy nature e'en hushed in repose-
In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes,
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar,
With a haughty defiance to come to the war.
No outrage is war to a creature like thee;
The bugle horn fills thy wild spirit with glee,
As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind,
And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind.

In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with death,
In the feet that draw power from the touch of the heath-
In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roar-
In the cliff that once trod, must be trodden no more-

Thy trust-'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign:
But what if the stag on the mountain be slain?
On the brink of the rock-lo! he standeth at bay,
Like a victor that falls at the close of the day-
While the hunter and hound in their terror retreat-
From the death that is spurned from his furious feet;
And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies,
As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies.

PROFESSOR JOHN WILSON.

CXXVII.-THE HATEFULNESS OF WAR.

APART altogether from the evils of war, let us just take a direct look at it, and see whether we can find its character engraven on the aspect it bears to the eye of an attentive observer. The stoutest heart of this assembly would recoil, were he who owns it to behold the destruction of a single individual by some deed of violence. Were the man who at this moment stands before you in the full play and energy of health, to be in another moment laid by some deadly aim a lifeless corpse at your feet, there is not one of you who would not prove how strong are the relentings of nature at a spectacle so hideous as death.

There are some of you who would be haunted for whole days by the image of horror you had witnessed,-who would feel the weight of a most oppressive sensation upon your heart, which nothing but time could wear away,—who would be so pursued by it as to be unfit for business or for enjoyment,-who would think of it through the day, and it would spread a gloomy disquietude over your waking moments, who would dream of it at night, and it would turn that bed which you courted as a retreat from the torments of an evermeddling memory, into a scene of restlessness.

But generally the death of violence is not instantaneous, and there is often a sad and dreary interval between its final consummation, and the infliction of the blow which causes it. The winged messenger of destruction has not found its direct avenue to that spot, where the principle of life is situated; and the soul, finding obstacles to its immediate egress, has to struggle for hours ere it can make its dreary way through the winding avenues of that tenement, which has been torn open by a brother's hand. Oh! my brethren, if there be something appalling in the suddenness of death, think not that, when gradual in its advances, you will alleviate the horrors of this sickening contemplation by viewing it in a milder form.

Oh! tell me, if there be any relentings of pity in your bosom, how

could you endure it, to behold the agonies of the dying man,—as, goaded by pain, he grasps the cold ground in convulsive energy, or, faint with the loss of blood, his pulse ebbs low, and the gathering paleness spreads itself over his countenance, or wrapping himself round in despair, he can only mark, by a few feeble quiverings, that life still lurks and lingers in his lacerated body,- -or lifting up a fading eye, he casts on you a look of imploring helplessness, for that succor, which no sympathy can yield him? It may be painful to dwell on such a representation, but this is the way in which the cause of humanity is served.

The eye of the sentimentalist turns away from its sufferings, and he passes by on the other side, lest he hear that pleading voice which is armed with a tone of remonstrance so vigorous as to disturb him. He can not beâr thus to pause, in imagination, on the distressing picture of one individual: but multiply it ten thousand times,-say how much of all this distress has been heaped together on a single field, give us the arithmetic of this accumulated wretchedness, and lay it before us with all the accuracy of an official computation,and, strange to tell, not one sigh is lifted up among the crowd of eager listeners, as they stand on tiptoe, and catch every syllable of utterance which is read to them out of the registers of death.

Oh! say, what mystic spell is that which so blinds us to the sufferings of our brethren,-which deafens to our ear the voice of bleeding humanity, when it is aggravated by the shriek of dying thousands, which makes the very magnitude of the slaughter throw a softening disguise over its cruelties and its horrors,-which causes us to eye with indifference the field that is crowded with the most revolting abominations, and arrests that sigh, which each individual would singly have drawn from us by the report of the many who had fallen and breathed their last in agony along with him?

I have no time, and assuredly as little taste, for expatiating on a topic so melancholy; nor can I afford, at present, to set before you a vivid picture of the other miseries which war carries in its train,— how it desolates every country through which it rolls, and spreads violation and alarm among its villages,-how at its approach, every home pours forth its trembling fugitives,-how all the rights of property, and all the provisions of justice, must give way before its devouring exactions,-how, when Sabbath comes, no Sabbath charm comes along with it,—and for the sound of the church-bell, which was wont to spread its music over some fine landscape of nature, and summon rustic worshipers to the house of prayer, nothing is heard but the deathful volleys of the battle, and the maddening outcry of infuriated men,-how, as the fruit of victory, an unprincipled licentiousness, which no discipline can restrain, is suffered to walk at large among the people,—and all that is pure, and reverend,