What! (reasoned I) is this the sequel to the Democratic meeting of last night?  Has Mars, who presided at the town-hall, a seat in the lecture-room of this Theological Seminary?  As the young man proceeded, however, I perceived that his poem was, in fact, a denunciation of the horrors of war,—­not, as I had supposed, the composition of another person committed to memory, and now rehearsed as an exercise in elocution, but entirely his own.  It was altogether a creditable performance.  The Professors at the close made their criticisms upon it, which were all highly favourable.  Dr. Beecher said, “My only criticism is, Print it, print it.”  The venerable Doctor, with the natural partiality of a tutor, afterwards observed to me he had never heard anything against war that took so strong a hold of his feelings as that poem.  Dr. Stowe also told me that Mr. Armstrong was considered a young man of fine talents and great devotion; and that some of the students had facetiously said, “Brother Armstrong was so pious that even the dogs would not bark at him!”

Mr. Armstrong was not at all disposed to take his tutor’s advice.  But he favoured me with a copy of his poem, on condition that I would not cause it to be printed in America,—­in England I might.  It contains some turgid expressions, some halting and prosaic lines, and might be improved by a severe revision; but, besides its interest as a Transatlantic college-exercise, I feel it possesses sufficient merit to relieve the tediousness of my own prose.

“’On—­to the glorious conflict—­ON!’—­
  Is heard throughout the land,
While flashing columns, thick and strong,
  Sweep by with swelling band. 
‘Our country, right or wrong,’ they shout,
  ’Shall still our motto he: 
With this we are prepared to rout
  Our foes from sea to sea. 
Our own right arms to us shall bring
  The victory and the spoils;
And Montezuma’s halls shall ring,
  When there we end our toils.’ 
ON, then, ye brave’ like tigers rage,
  That you may win your crown,
Mowing both infancy and age
  In ruthless carnage down. 
Where flows the tide of life and light,
  Amid the city’s hum,
There let the cry, at dead of night,
  Be heard, ‘They come, they come!’
Mid scenes of sweet domestic bliss,
  Pour shells of livid fire,
While red-hot balls among them hiss,
  To make the work entire
And when the scream of agony
  Is heard above the din,
Then ply your guns with energy,
  And throw your columns in
Thro’ street and lane, thro’ house and church,
  The sword and faggot hear,
And every inmost recess search,
  To fill with shrieks the air
Where waving fields and smiling homes
  Now deck the sunny plain,
And laughter-loving childhood roams
  Unmoved by care or pain;
Let famine gaunt and grim despair
  Behind you stalk along,
And pestilence taint all the air