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Blanche. Thanks to God!
He, by thy glance, will aid me; I shall see
His light before me to the last. —And when—
Oh! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child I —
5 When shall the hour befall?

D'aubigne'. Oh! swiftly now,

And suddenly, with brief, dread interval,
Comes down the mortal stroke. — But of that hour
As yet I know not. — Each low throbbing pulse 10 Of the quick pendulum may usher in
Eternity!

Blanche (kneeling before him.) My father I lay thy hand
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness,

15 Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul,
Ere we are called.

D'aubione'. If I may speak through tears !—
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart! — thou who dost look on me

20 With thy lost mother's angel-eyes of love!
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul,
A stainless lily in my widowed house,
There springing up, — with soft light round thee shed, —

25 For immortality ! — Meek child of God!

I bless thee— He will bless thee ! — In His love
He calls thee now from this rude, stormy world,
To thy lledeemer's breast. — And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived, — my duteous, holy Blanche!

SO In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of Heaven.

Blanche (rising.) Now is there strength

Infused through all my spirit. — I can rise
And say, — " Thy will be done!"

35 D'aubione' (pointing upwards.) Seest thou, my child, Yon faint light in the west? The signal-star

Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon-gratiug ! — Mournfully
It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
5 Of adoration in our narrow cell, As if unworthy Fear or wavering Faith
Silenced the strain ? —No! let it waft to Heaven
The Prayer, the Hope, of poor Mortality,
In its dark hour once more ! — And we will sleep —>
10 Yes, calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.

(They sing together.)

CXVII. —THE LAST HOURS OF WEBSTER.

Everett.

[The following extract is the concluding portion of a speech delivered by Mr. Everett, October 27, 1852, in Faneuil Hall, Boston, at a meeting of the citizens of Boston, assembled in consequence of the death of Mr. Webster, which had taken place on the 24th.]

Among the many memorable words which fell from the lips of our friend just before they were closed forever, the most remarkable are those which have been quoted by a previous speaker, —"I Still Live." They attest the se5 rene composure of his mind; the Christian heroism with which he was able to turn his consciousness in upon himself, and explore, step by step, the dark passage (dark to us, but to him, we trust, already lighted from above), which connects this world with the world to come. But I

HO know not what words could have been better chosen to express his relation to the world he was leaving— "I still live." This poor dust is just returning to the dust from which it was taken, but I feel that I live in the affections of the people to whose services I have consecrated my 15 days. "I still live." The icy hand of death is already laid on my heart, but I shall still live in those words of counsel which I have uttered to my fellow-citizens, and which I now leave them as the last bequest of a dying friend. 5 In the long and honored career of our lamented friend, there are efforts and triumphs which will hereafter fill one of the brightest pages of our history. But I greatly err if the closing scene — the height of the religious sublime — does not, in the judgment of other days, far transcend

10 in interest the brightest exploits of public life. Within that darkened chamber at Marshfield was witnessed a scene of which we shall not readily find the parallel. The serenity with which he stood in the presence of the King of Terrors, without trepidation or flutter, for hours and

15 days of expectation: the thoughtfulness for the public business, when the sands were so nearly run out; the hospitable care for the reception of the friends who came to Marshfield; that affectionate and solemn leave separately taken, name by name, of wife and children and kindred and

20 friends and family, down to the humblest members of the household; the designation of the coming day, then near at hand, when "all that was mortal of Daniel Webster should cease to exist!" the dimly-recollected strains of the funeral poetry of Gray; the last faint flash of the

25 soaring intellect; the feebly-murmured words of Holy Writ repeated from the lips of the good physician, who, when all the resources of human art had been exhausted, had a drop of spiritual balm for the parting soul; the clasped hands; the dying prayers. Oh! my fellow-citizens, this

30 is a consummation over which tears of pious sympathy will be shed ages after the glories of the forum and the senate are forgotten.

"His sufferings ended with the day, Yet lived he at its close; 35 And breathed the long, long night away,

In statue-like repose.

"But ere the Sun, in all his state.
Illumed the Eastern skies,
He passed through glory's morning gate,
And walked in Paradise."

CXVIIL —HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNI, SWITZERLAND.

Coleridge.

[samuel Taylor Coleridge was born at Ottery St. Mary, In Devonshire, England, October 21, 1772, and died July 25, 1834. He was one of the most remarkable men of his time; and few writers have exerted a wider and deeper intellectual influence. His influence, too, is most felt by minds of the highest class. He was an original and imaginative poet, a profound and suggestive philosophical writer, and a critic of unrivalled excellence. His works are somewhat fragmentary in their character, for he wanted patience in intellectual construction; but they are the fragments of a noble edifice. In conversational eloquence he is said to have excelled all his contemporaries.

Coleridge's life was not in all respects what the admirers of his genius could have wished. His great defect was a want of will. He could see the right; hut not always go to it; he could see the wrong, but not always go from it.]

1 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star

In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc IThe Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form,
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee, and above,
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black.
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it
As with a wedge. But when 1 look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity.

2 O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer
I worshipped the Invisible aloDe.

3 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, —,

So sweet we know not we are listening to it,—

Thou, the mean while, wast blending with my thought,

Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy;Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing — there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven.

4 Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake I
Green vales and icy cliffs! all join my hymn.

5 Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale 1
O, struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink, —
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald — wake, O wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

6 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
Forever shattered, and the same forever?

Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam?

And who commanded, — and the silence came, —

"Here let the billows stiffen and have rest"?

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