Oh, the splendor gluts the senses, while the spirit pines and dwindles! Mother Church is but a dry-nurse, singing while her infant moans; While anon a cake or rattle gives a little half-oblivion, And the sweetness and the glitter mingle with her drowsy tones. But the infant moans and tosses with a nameless want and anguish, While, with coarse, unmeaning bushings, louder sings the hireling nurse,-- Knows no better, in her dull and superannuated blindness,-- Tries no potion,--seeks no nurture,--but consents to worse and worse. If such be thy ultimation, Church of infinite pretension,-- Such within thy chosen garden be the flowers and fruits you bear,-- Oh, give me the book of Nature, open wide to every creature, And the unconsecrated thoughts that spring like daisies everywhere! Send me to the woods and waters,--to the studio,--to the market! Give me simple conversation, books, arts, sports, and friends sincere! Let no priest be e'er my tutor! on my brow no label written! Coin or passport to salvation, rather none, than beg it here! Give me air, and not a prison,--love for Heart, and light for Reason! Let me walk no slave or bigot,--God's untrammelled, fearless child! Yield me rights each soul is born to,--rights not given and not taken,-- Free to Cardinals and Princes and Campagna shepherds wild. Like these Roman fountains gushing clear and sweet in open spaces, Where the poorest beggar stoops to drink, and none can say him nay,-- Let the Law, the Truth, be common, free to man and child and woman, Living waters for the souls that now in sickness waste away! Therefore are these fields far sweeter than yon temple of Saint Peter; Through this grander dome of azure God looks down and blesses all; In these fields the birds sing clearer, to the Eternal Heart are nearer, Than the sad monastic chants that yonder on my ears did fall. Never smiled Christ's holy Vicar on the heretic and sinner As this sun--true type of Godhead--smiles o'er all the peopled land! Sweeter smells this blowing clover than the perfume of the censer, And the touch of Spring is kinder than the Pontiff's jewelled hand! THE EXPERIENCE OF SAMUEL ABSALOM, FILIBUSTER. [Concluded.] Some time after the departure of the riflemen, a detail of eight or nine men from our company was ordered off towards the lake shore, and soon afterward another smaller one to Potosí, a little village four or five miles to the northward of Rivas, bearing orders to Captain Finney's rangers, who had gone to scout in that direction. The rest of us ate supper, and then lay listening for the boom of the little field-piece, which should tell us that the rifles had met the enemy. But the extraordinary toils and watchings of the last fortnight were too overpowering, and we were all soon buried in dreamless sleep.