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self to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below; nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the union should be preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people, when it shall be broken up and destroyed.

While the union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that, I seek not to penetrate the vail. God grant, that in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. God grant, that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind. When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious union; on states dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood ! Let their last feeble and lingering glance, rather, behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre; not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured, bearing for its motto, no such miserable interrogatory as, What is all this worth? nor those other words of delusion and folly: Liberty fir:t, and union afterwards; but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea, and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart, Liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable!

oh, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? Like a swift, fleeting meteor, a fast flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid ;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved ;
The mother that infants affection who proved ;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant whose lot to sow and to reap;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen-
We drink the same stream and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would

shrink, To the life we are clinging they also would cling; But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will

come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain ;
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge;
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath; From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroudOh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?


One more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;-
Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments,
Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing;

Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully
Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her

Now, is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's familyWipe those poor lips of hers,

Oozing so clammily;

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses ; Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings were changed ;
Love, by harsh evidence,

Thrown from its eminence Even God's providence

Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river, With many a light

From window and casement, .From garret to basement,

She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.

The bleak winds of March

Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery

Swift to be hurl'd
Anywhere, anywhere

Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly

The rough river ran,-
Over the brink of it,
Picture it,--think of it,

Dissolute man! Lave in it, drink of it

Then, if you can !

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