9. But his last words, his message words,
They burn, lest friendly eye

Should read how proud and calm
A patriot could die,

With his last words, his message words,
A soldier's battle-cry!

10. From Fame Leaf and from Angel Leaf,
From Monument and Urn,

The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,
His history shall learn,

And on Fame Leaf and Angel Leaf
The name of Hale shall burn.

LVI-A MOTHER'S LOVE.

ALBERT BARNES.

1. Many of us—most of us who are advanced beyond the period of childhood-went out from home to embark on the stormy sea of life. Of the feelings of a father, and of his interest in our welfare, we have never entertained a doubt, and our home was dear because he was there ; but there was a peculiarity in the feeling that it was the home of our mother. While she lived there, there was a place that we felt was home. There was one place where we should always be welcome, one place where we should be met with a smile, one place where we should be sure of a friend.

2. The world might be indifferent to us. We might be unsuccessful in our studies or our business. The new friend which we supposed we had made might prove to be false. The honor which we thought we deserved might be withheld from us. We might be chagrined and mortified by seeing a rival outstrip us, and bear away the prize which we sought. But there was a place where no feelings of rivalry were found, and where those whom the world overlooked would be sure of a friendly greeting, whether pale and wan by study, care, or sickness, or flushed with health and flattering suc

cess, we were sure we should be welcome there. There was a place to which we might go back from the storm which began to pelt us, where we might rest, and become encouraged and invigorated for a new conflict.

3. So have I seen a bird, in its first efforts to fly, leave its nest, and stretch its wings, and go forth to the wide world. But the wind blew it back, and the rain began to fall, and the darkness of night began to draw on, and there was no shelter abroad, and it sought its way back to its nest, to take shelter beneath its mother's wings, and to be refreshed for the struggles of a new day; but then it flew away to think of its nest and its mother no more.

4. But not thus did we leave our home when we bade adieu to it to go forth alone to the manly duties of life. Even amid the storms that then beat upon us, and the disappointments that we met with, and the coldness of the world, we felt still that there was one there who sympathized in our troubles, as well as rejoiced in our success, and that, whatever might be abroad, when we entered the door of her dwelling we should be met with a smile. We expected that a mother, like the mother of Sisera, as she "looked out at her window," waiting for the coming of her son laden with the spoils of victory, would look out for our coming, and that our return would renew her joy and ours in our earlier days.

5. It makes a sad desolation when from such a place a mother is taken away, and when, whatever may be the sorrows or the successes in life, she is to greet the returning son or daughter no more. The home of our childhood may be still lovely. The old family mansion-the green fieldsthe running stream-the moss-covered well-the trees-the lawn-the rose-the sweet brier may be there. Perchance, too, there may be an aged father, with venerable locks, sitting in his loneliness, with every thing to command respect and love; but she is not there. Her familiar voice is not heard. The mother has been borne forth to sleep by the side of her children who went before her, and the place is not what it was.

6. There may be those there whom we much love, but she is not there. We may have formed new relations in life, ten

der and strong as they can be; we may have another home, dear to us as was the home of our childhood, where there is all in affection, kindness, and religion, to make us happy, but that home is not what it was, and it will never be what it was again. It is a loosening of one of the cords which bound us to earth, designed to prepare us for our eternal flight from every thing dear here below, and to teach us that there is no place here that is to be our permanent home.

LVII.-PATRICK HENRY.

BY WILLIAM WIRT.

1. Mr. Henry was nearly six feet high; spare, and what may be called raw-boned, with a slight stoop of the shoulders. His complexion was dark, sun-burnt, and sallow, without any appearance of blood in his cheeks; his countenance grave, thoughtful, penetrating, and strongly marked with the lineaments of deep reflection. The earnestness of his manner, united with an habitual contraction or knitting of his brows, and those lines of thought with which his face was profusely furrowed, gave to his countenance, at some times, the appearance of severity. Yet such was the power which he had over its expression, that he could shake off from it in an instant all the sternness of winter, and robe it in the brightest smiles of spring.

2. His forehead was high and straight, yet forming a sufficient angle with the lower part of his face; his nose, somewhat of the Roman stamp, though like that which we see in the bust of Cicero, was rather long, than remarkable for its Cæsarean form. Of the color of his eyes, the accounts are almost as various as those which we have of the color of the chameleon; they are said to have been blue gray, which Lavater calls green, hazel, brown, and black. The fact seems to have been, that they were of a bluish grey, not large; and being deeply fixed in his head, overhung by dark, long, and full eye-brows, and farther shaded by lashes that were both long and black, their apparent color was as variable as the lights in which they were seen. But all con

cur in saying that they were, unquestionably, the finest feature in his face-brilliant, full of spirit, and capable of the most rapidly shifting and powerful expression—at one time piercing and terrible as those of Mars, and then again soft and tender as those of pity herself.

3. His cheeks were hollow-his chin long, but well formed, and rounded at the end, so as to form a proper counterpart to the upper part of his face. "I find it difficult," says the correspondent from whom I have borrowed this portrait, "to describe his mouth, in which there was nothing remarkable, except when about to express a modest dissent from some opinion on which he was commenting. He then had a sort of half smile, in which the want of conviction was perhaps more strongly expressed, than the satirical emotion, which probably prompted it. His manner and address to the court and jury might be deemed the excess of humility, diffidence, and modesty. If, as rarely happened, he had occasion to answer any remark from the bench, it was impossible for meekness herself to assume a manner less presumptuous. But in the smile of which I have been speaking, you might anticipate the want of conviction, expressed in his answer, at the moment that he submitted to the superior wisdom of the court, with a grace that would have done honor to Westminster Hall. In his reply to counsel, his remarks on the evidence, and on the conduct of the parties, he preserved the same distinguished deference and politeness, still accompanied, however, by the never-failing index of this skeptical smile, where the occasion prompted."

4. In short, his features were manly, bold, and well proportioned, full of intelligence, and adapting themselves intuitively to every sentiment of his mind and every feeling of his heart. His voice was not remarkable for its sweetness; but it was firm, full of volume, and rather melodious. Its charms consisted in the mellowness and fullness of its note, the ease and variety of its inflections, the distinctness of its articulation, the fine effect of its emphasis, the felicity with which it attuned itself to every emotion, and the vast compass which enabled it to range through the whole empire of human passion, from the deep and tragic half-whisper of horror, to the wildest exclamation of overwhelming rage.

5. In mild persuasion it was as soft and gentle as the zephyr of spring; while in rousing his countrymen to arms, the winter storm that roars along the troubled Baltic, was not more awfully sublime. It was at all times perfectly under his command; or rather, indeed, it seemed to command itself, and to modulate its notes, most happily, to the sentiment he was uttering. It never exceeded, or fell short of the occasion. There was none of that long-continued and deafening vociferation, which always takes place when an ardent speaker has lost possession of himself—no monotonous clangor, no discordant shriek. Without being strained, it had that body and enunciation which filled the most distant ear, without distressing those which were nearest him; hence it never became cracked or hoarse, even in his longest speeches, but retained to the last all its clearness and fulness of intonation, all the delicacy of its inflection, all the charms of its emphasis, and enchanting variety of its cadence.

6. His delivery was perfectly natural and well-timed. It has indeed been said, that, on his first rising, there was a species of sub-cantus very observable by a stranger, and rather disagreeable to him; but soon even itself became agreeable, and seemed, indeed, indispensable to the full effect of his peculiar diction and conceptions. In point of time, he was very happy: there was no slow and heavy dragging, no quaint and measured drawling, with equidistant pace, no stumbling and floundering among the fractured members of deranged and broken periods, no undignified hurry and trepidation, no recalling and recasting of sentences, no retraction of one word and substitution of another not better, and none of those affected bursts of almost inarticulate impetuosity, which betray the rhetorician rather than display the orator.

7. On the contrary, ever self-collected, deliberate, and dignified, he seemed to have looked through the whole period before he commenced its delivery; and hence his delivery was smooth, and firm, and well accented; slow enough to take along with him the dullest hearer, and yet so commanding that the quick had neither the power nor the disposition to get the start of him. Thus he gave to every thought its full and appropriate force; and to every image all its radiance and beauty.