See from this point how gently and gracefully undulates the battle-field; the woods bowing to the evening breeze, as the soft sunlight pours through their branches show not the gashes of rude cannon shot—the plain, loaded and bending with the yellow harvest, betrays no human gore—yon hill scathed, scorched and blackened with cannon flame, the very resting place of the deadly battery, shows no relic of the fierce death struggle, as covered with the fragrant clover and wild blue-bell, the bee in monotonous hum banquets o’er it. Nought mars the serenity of nature as she smiles upon us. Yet, burnt in common funeral pyre, the ashes of those brave men, of friend and foe, there mingle in the bosom whence they issued. The frenzied passion passed, the furious conflict o’er, they have lain down in quiet, and like young children, sleep gently, sweetly, in the lap of that common mother who shelters with like protection the little field mouse from its gambols, and the turbaned Sultan sinking amid his prostrate millions. Shades of my gallant countrymen! Shades of their daring foes—farewell. Ne’er had warriors more glorious death-couch,—the eternal Cataracts roar your requiem. The reader’s attention is requested to the more detailed account of this action in the Appendix. The inscription on the tablet is given from recollection, and it is possible that the number of the Regiment may not be the one to which this officer belonged. LAKE GEORGE AND TICONDEROGA. The Sun of Morning hurls himself in blazing splendour o’er thy crystal waters, beautiful Horicon, as we float upon thy placid bosom, not as of yore, in feathery canoe, but in gaily-coloured bark, drawn by Steam Spirit, as he vainly strives to break his fiery prison. See, how he puffs and pants in the fierce embrace of the glowing element; in furious efforts dragging us onward with frantic swiftness, e’en as the frightened steed, the vehicle wildly bounding after him. As the valve of safety opens, hear the shriek of mad delight, with which exultingly he proclaims his freedom;—now, the iron portal closed, how like Sampson in the Prison Mill, struggling, giant-like, he again applies him to his toil. Imprisoned Spirit! there is no help for thee. Sweat thou must, and pant, and groan, till, like thy fellow-labourer, man, released from fire fetter, as he of earth, resolved to pure ether, thou shalt float again free and delighted in the clear elements above!