In its glad beauty from the gloom of death

Where the crushed mould beneath the sunken foot Seems but the sepulchre of old decay;

Turn thou a keener glance, and thou shalt find

The gathered myriads of a mimic world.
The breath of evening and the sultry morn

Bears on its wing a cloud of witnesses

That earth from her unnumbered caves of death
Sends forth a mightier tide of teeming life;
Raise then the Hymn to Immortality!
The broad green prairies and the wilderness,
And the old cities where the dead have slept,
Age upon age, a thousand graves in one,
Shall yet be crowded with the living forms
Of myraids, waking from the silent dust.

Kings that lay down in state, and earth's poor slaves
Resting together in one fond embrace,

The white-haired patriarch and the tender babe,
Grown old together in the flight of years;
They of immortal fame and they whose praise
Was never sounded in the ears of men,

Archon and priest, and the poor common crowd,
All the vast concourse in the halls of death,
Shall waken from the dreams of silent years
To hail the dawn of the immortal day.
Aye, learn the lesson! Though the worm shall be
Thy brother in the mystery of death,

And all shall pass, humble and proud and gay
Together, to earth's mighty charnel-house,
Yet the immortal is thy heritage!

The grave shall gather thee: yet thou shalt come,
Beggar or prince, not as thou wentest forth,
In rags or purple, but arrayed as those
Whose mortal puts on immortality!

Then mourn not when thou markest the decay
Of nature, and her solemn hymn of death

Steals with a note of sadness to thy heart.
That other voice, with its rejoicing tones,

Breaks from the mould with every bursting flower,

"O grave! thy victory!

And thou, oh, man! Burdened with sorrow at the woes which crowd Thy narrow heritage, lift up thy head

In the strong hope of the undying life,
And shout the Hymn to Immortality.
The dear departed that have passed away
To the still house of death, leaving thine own,
The gray-haired sire that died in blessing thee,
Mother, or sweet-lipped babe, or she who gave
Thy home the light and bloom of Paradise,
They shall be thine again, when thou shalt pass
At God's appointment, through the shadowy vale,
To reach the sunlight of the Immortal Hills.
And thou that gloriest to lie down with kings,
Thine uncrowned head no lowlier than theirs,
Seek thou the loftier glory to be known

A king and priest to God! — when thou shalt pass
Forth from these silent halls to take thy place
With patriarchs and prophets and the blest
Gone up from every land to people heaven.
So live, that when the mighty caravan,
Which halts one night-time in the vale of Death,
Shall strike its white tents for the morning march,
Thou shalt mount onward to the Eternal Hills,
Thy foot unwearied, and thy strength renewed
Like the strong eagle's for the upward flight!

Since last I roamed in the light of day,
Or mingled my own with another's tear;
Woe to the daughters and sons of men—
Woe to them all when I roam again!

Here have I watched, in this dungeon cell,
Longer than Memory's tongue can tell;

Here have I shrieked in my wild despair,

When the damnéd fiends, from their prison came, Sported and gamboled, and mocked me here,

With their eyes of fire, and their tongues of flame,
Shouting forever and aye my name!

And I strove in vain to burst my chain,
And longed to be free as the winds again;
That I might spring in the wizard ring,
And scatter them back to their hellish den!
Woe to the daughters and sons of men-
Woe to them all when I roam again!

How long I have been in this dungeon here,
Little I know, and nothing I care;

What to me is the day, or night,
Summer's heat or autumn sere,

Spring-tide flowers, or winter's blight,
Pleasure's smile, or sorrow's tear;

Time! what care I for thy flight?

Joy! I spurn thee with disdain;
Nothing love I but this clanking chain;
Once I broke from its iron hold,

Nothing I said, but silent and bold

Like the shepherd that watches his gentle fold,
Like the tiger that crouches in mountain lair,

Hours upon hours so watched I there;

Till one of the flends that had come to bring

Herbs from the valley and drink from the spring,

Stalked through my dungeon entrance in!

Ha! how he shrieked to see me free

Ho! how he trembled, and knelt to me,
He, who had mocked me many a day,
And barred me out from its cheerful ray-
Gods! how I shouted to see him pray!

I wreathed my hands in the demon's hair,
And choked his breath in its muttered prayer,

And danced I then in wild delight,

To see the trembling wretch's fright!

Gods! How I crushed his hated bones

'Gainst the jagged wall and the dungeon-stones;
And plunged my arm adown his throat,
And dragged to life his beating heart,
And held it up that I might gloat,

To see its quivering fibers start!
Ho! how I drank of the purple flood,
Quaffed, and quaffed again, of blood,

Till my brain grew dark, and I knew no more,
Till I found myself on this dungeon floor,

Fettered and held by this iron chain;

Ho! when I break its links again,

Ha! when I break its links again,
Woe to the daughters and sons of men!

APOSTROPHE TO THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

George Bancroft.

Go forth, then, language of Milton and Hampden, language of my country; take possession of the North American Continent! Gladden the waste places with every tone that has been rightly struck on the English lyre, with every English word that has been spoken well for liberty and man ! Give an echo to the now silent and solitary mountains; gush out with the fountains that as yet sing their anthem all day long without response; fill the valleys with the voices of love in its purity, the pledges of friendship in its faithfulness; and as the morning sun drinks the dew-drops from the flowers all the way from the dreary Atlantic to the Peaceful ocean, meet him with the joyous hum of the early industry of freemen! Utter boldly and spread widely through the world the thoughts of the coming apostles of the people's liberty, till the sound that cheers the desert shall thrill through the heart of humanity, and the lips of the messenger of the people's power, as he stands in beauty upon the mountains, shall proclaim the renovating tidings of equal freedom for the race.

PART VI.

222. ORIGINAL DISCOURSE.

1. Thus far the student has been instructed in the manner only of expressing the thoughts of others. While the ability to comprehend instantly and render effectively an author's thoughts as outlined upon the printed page is an accomplishment of great value to all, such an attainment is not sufficient for the broad and general culture required by our times and institutions.

2. The responsibilities thrust upon us by the republican form of government under which we live, perpetuated in its purity and efficiency by the logic of a Choate, the wisdom of a Webster, and the eloquence of a Clay, demand attainments of a higher order than mere skill in the pathetic, forcible, or eloquent repetition of some popular composition.

3. The citizen who would form at least a unit in the Republic must be competent to wield the pen and when called upon, be prepared to address his countrymen intelligently upon the questions of the day. His duty to himself and country demand that whether he write or speak, his performance should be creditable and effective.

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