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Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown,
Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze?
Hear, hear, and answer me!
Thy voice-its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone
Thrilled through the tempest of the parting strife,
Like a faint breeze :-oh! from that music flown,
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life,
But once oh! answer me !
In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush,
In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep,
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush,
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep-
By the remembrance of our blended prayer;
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet;
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair;-
Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet;
Answer me, answer me !
The grave is silent:-and the far-off sky,
And the deep midnight-silent all, and lone!
Oh! if thy buried love make no reply,
What voice has earth?—Hear, pity, speak, mine own!
Answer me, answer me!
EXTRACT FROM THE PRESENT CRISIS.-HALL,
I cannot but imagine the virtuous heroes, legislators, and patriots of every age and country are bending from their elevated seats to witness this contest, as if they were incapable, till it be brought to a favorable issue, of enjoying their eternal repose. Enjoy that repose, illustrious mortals! Your mantle fell when you ascended; and thousands, inflamed with your spirit, and impatient to tread in your steps, are ready to swear by him that sitteth upon the throne, and liveth forever and ever, they will protect freedom in her last asylum, and never desert that cause which you sustained by your labors and cemented with your blood. And thou, sole Ruler among the children of men, to whom the shields of the earth belong, gird on thy sword, thou
Most Mighty go forth with our hosts in the day of battle! Impart, in addition to their hereditary valor, that confidence of success which springs from thy presence! Pour into their hearts the spirit of departed heroes! Inspire them with thine own; and while led by thy hand, and fighting under thy banners, open thou their eyes to behold in every valley, and in every plain, what the prophet beheld by the same illumination-chariots of fire, and horses of fire! Then shall the strong man be as tow, and the maker of it as a spark; and they shall both burn together, and none shall quench them.
Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn,
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return!
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour:
Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! immortal power!
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly,
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day—
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,
And all the phoenix spirit burn within!
Oh! deep enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!
Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh,
It is a dread and awful thing to die!
Mysterious worlds, untraveled by the sun,
Where time's far-wandering tide has never run,
From your unfathomed shades and viewless spheres,
A warning comes, unheard by other ears.
"T is heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and called upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks and hovers o'er the dark abyss!
Daughter of faith! awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;
Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll
Cimmerean darkness on the parting soul!
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay,
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er-the pangs of nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes,
Hark! as the spirit eyes with eagle gaze,
The noon of heaven undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still
Watched on the holy towers of Zion's hill!
Soul of the just! companion of the dead!
Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled?
Back to its heavenly source thy being goes,
Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ;
Doomed on his airy path awhile to burn,
And doomed like thee, to travel and return.-
Hark! from the world's exploding center driven,
With sounds that shook the firmament of heaven,
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,
On bickering wheels, and adamantine car;
From planet whirled to planet more remote,
He visits realms beyond the reach of thought;
But wheeling homeward when his course is run,
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!
So hath the traveler of earth unfurled
Her trembling wings, emerging from the world;
And o'er the path by mortal never trod,
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God!
EXTRACT FROM AN EULOGY ON LA FAYETTE.-E. EVERETT.
You have now assembled within these celebrated walls, to perform the last duties of respect and love, on the birth-day of your benefactor, beneath that roof which has resounded of old with the master voices of American renown. The spirit of the departed is in high communion with that spirit of the place;the temple worthy of the new name which we now behold in
scribed on its walls. Listen, Americans, to the lessons which seem borne to us on the very air we breathe, while we perform these dutiful rites! Ye winds that wafted the Pilgrims to the land of promise, fan, in their children's hearts, the love of freedom;-Blood, which our fathers shed, cry from the ground;Echoing arches of this renowned hall, whisper back the voices of other days; Glorious Washington, break the long silence of that votive canvass;-Speak, speak, marble lips, teach us the love of liberty protected by law!
THE WOUNDED EAGLE.-MRS. HEMANS.
Eagle! this is not thy sphere!
Warrior bird! what seekest thou here?
Wherefore by the fountain's brink
Doth thy royal pinion sink?
Wherefore on the violet's bed
Layest thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou that hold'st the blast in scorn,
Thou that wear'st the wings of morn!
Eagle! wilt thou not arise?
Look upon thine own bright skies!
Lift thy glance the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won!
And the mountain lark is there,
And sweet sound hath filled the air;
Hast thou left that realm on high?
Oh! it can be but to die!
Eagle, eagle! thou hast bowed
From thine empire o'er the cloud!
Thou that hadst ethereal birth,
Thou hast stooped too near the earth,
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee,
And the toils of death have bound thee!
-Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?
Wert thou weary of thy throne?
Was the sky's dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free!
Now the chain is o'er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast,
-Wo for gifted souls and high!
Is not such their destiny?
CLEOPATRA UPON THE CYDNUS.-SHAKSPEARE.
The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold:
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
The winds were lovesick with them: the oars were silver;
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water, which they beat, to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggared all description: she did lie
In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue,)
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see
The fancy outwork nature: on each side her,
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With diverse-colored fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid, did.
Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,
So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes,
And made their bends adornings at the helm
A seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackle
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands
That rarely frame the office. From the barge
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharves. The city cast
Her people out upon her; and Antony,
Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone,