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which unites national sovereignty with state rights, individual security, and public prosperity ?

No, gentlemen, if these colunins fall, they will be raised not again. Like the Coliseum, and the Parthenon, they 5 will be destined to a mournful, a melancholy immortality.

Bitterer tears, however, will flow over them than were ever shed over the monuments of Roman or Grecian art; for they will be the remnants of a more glorious edifice than

Greece or Rome ever saw — the edifice of constitutional 10 American liberty.

But, gentlemen, let us hope for better things. Let us trust in that gracious Being who has hitherto held our country as in the hollow of His hand. Let us trust to the

virtue and the intelligence of the people, and to the efficacy 15 of religious obligation. Let us trust to the influence of

Washington's example. Let us hope that that fear of Heaven which expels all other fear, and that regard to duty which transcends all other regard, may influence

public men and private citizens, and lead our country still 20 onward in her happy career.

Full of these gratifying anticipations and hopes, let us look forward to the end of that century which is now commenced. A hundred years hence, other disciples of

Washington will celebrate his birth, with no less of sin95 cere admiration than we now commemorate it. When

they shall meet, as we now meet, to do themselves and him that honor, so surely as they shall see the blue summits of his native mountains rise in the horizon, so surely

as they shall behold the river on whose banks he lived, 30 and on whose banks he rests, still flowing on toward the

sea, so surely may they see, as we now see, the flag of the Union floating on the top of the Capitol; and then, as now, may the sun in his course visit no land more free, more happy, more lovely, than this our own country!

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BRYANT. HERE are old trees — tall oaks and gnarled pines — That stream with gray-green mosses ; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades — Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old My thoughts go up the long, dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of liberty.

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0 Freedom, thou art not, as poets dream,
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy tresses, gushing from the cap
With which the Roman master crowned his slave
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,
Armed to the teeth, art thou ; one mailed hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred
With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs
Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched
His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;
They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven.
Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep,
And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,
Have forged thy chain ; yet while he deems thee bound,
The links are shivered, and the prison walls
Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth,
As springs the flame above a burning pile,
And shoutest to the nations, who return
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies


Thy birthright was not given by human hands;
Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,
While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him,
To tend the quiet flock, and watch the stars,
And teach the reed to utter simple airs.
Thou, by his side, amid the tangled wood,
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,
His only foes; and thou with him didst draw
The earliest furrows on the mourtain-side,
Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself,
Thy enemy, although of reverend look,
Hoary with many years, and far obeyed,
Is later born than thou; and as he meets
The grave defiance of thine elder eye,
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.


Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,
But he shall fade into a feebler age ;
Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares,
And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap
His withered hands, and from their ambush call
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send
Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien,
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words
To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread,
That grow to fetters, or bind down thy arms
With chains concealed in chaplets.

O, not yet
Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by -
Thy sword; nor yet, О Freedom, close thy lids
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps,
And thou must watch and combat till the day
Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men,
These old and friendly solitudes invite

Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees
Were young upon the unviolated earth,
And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new,
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.


WHITTIEP. (Buena Vista is a hamlet in Mexico where the Mexican army, under General Santa Anna, was defeated by the Americans, under General Taylor, February 22 and 23, 1847. La Angostura is about a mile and a half distant. La Puebla, (pwā'blä, or poo-ā'blä,) is the second city of Mexico.]

SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward fas away,
O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array,
Who is losing? who is winning ? are they far or come they near?
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.

" Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls;
Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls ! *
Who is losing? who is winning ? -" Over hill and over plain,
I see but smoke of cannon, clouding through the mountain rain.”

Holy Mother! keep our brothers ! Look Ximena, look once more:
" Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before,
Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse,
Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain


Look forth once more Ximena! “Ah! the smoke has rolled away; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. Hark! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of Minon * wheels; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels.

« Jesu, pity! how it thickens ! now retreat and now advance!
Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance!
Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall;
Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern


* Minon, (pronounced min-yon,) was a Mexican general.

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on.
Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost and who has won ?
" Alas! alas ! I know not; friend and foe together fall;
O'er the dying rush the living; pray, my sisters, for them all!

" Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting; Blessed Mother, save my brain !
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain.
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall and strive to rise;
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes !

“Oh my heart's love! oh my dear one! lay thy poor head on my

knee; Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? Canst

thou see? Oh my husband, brave and gentle! oh my Bernard, look once more On the blessed cross before thee! mercy! mercy! all is o'er."

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said;
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away;
But as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena knelt,
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt.

With a stifled cry of horror, straight she turned away her head;
With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead;
But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of

And she raised the cooling water to his parched lips again.

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand, and faintly smiled. Was that pitying face his mother's ? did she watch beside her child? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied; With her kiss upon his forehead, “Mother,” murmured he, and died.

"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth,
From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping lonely, in the North!”
Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,
And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.

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