perpetuates the remembrance of men on earth; in the recorded proofs of their own great actions, in the offspring of their intellect, in the deep engraved lines of public gratitude, and in the respect and homage of mankind. They live in their example; and they live, emphatically, and will live, in the influence which their lives and efforts, their principles and opinions, now exercise, and will continue to exercise, on the affairs of men, not only in their own country, but throughout the civilized world. A superior and commanding human intellect, a truly great man, when Heaven vouchsafes so rare a gift, is not a temporary flame, burning bright for a while, and then expiring, giving place to returning darkness. It is rather a spark of fervent heat, as well as radiant light, with power to enkindle the coinmon mass of human mind; so that, when it glimmers, in its own decay, and finally goes out in death, no night follows; but it leaves the world all light, all on fire, from the potent contact of its own spirit. Bacon died; but the human understanding, 10used by the touch of his miraculous wand to a perception of the true philosophy and the just mode of inquiring after truth, has kept on its course successfully and gloriously. Newton died; yet the courses of the spheres are still known, and they yet move on, in the orbits which he saw and described for them, in the infinity of space. No two men now live-perhaps it may be doubted whether any two men have ever lived in one age-who, more than those we now commemorate, have impressed their own sentiments, in regard to politics and government, on mankind, infused their own opinions more deeply into the opinions of others, or given a more lasting direction to the current of human thought. Their work doth not perish with them. (The tree which they assisted to plant will flourish, although they water it and protect it no longer; for it has struck its roots deep; it has sent them to the very center; no storm, not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it; its branches spread wide; they stretch their protecting arms broader and broader, and its top is destined to reach the heavens. We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. No age will come in which the American revolution will appear less than it is, one of the greatest events in human history. No age will come in which it will cease to be seen and felt, on either continent, that a affairs, but in mighty step, a great advance, not only in American human affairs, was made on the 4th of July, 1776. And no age will come, we trust, so ignorant, or so unjust, as not to see and acknowledge the efficient agency of these we now honor in producing that momentous event. Daniel Webster Polish War Song. Freedom calls you! Quick, be ready,- Rise, and spurn the name of slave. Grasp the sword!-its edge is keen, By the souls of patriots gone, Sobieski cries awake! Rise, and front the despot czar, Freedom calls you! Quick,, be ready,— On, and let the watchwords be, James G. Percival. The Boys. This selection is a poem addressed to the class of 1829, in Harvard College, some thirty years after their graduation. Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? If there has, take him out, without making a noise. We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! We want some new garlands for those we have shed, We 've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old; That boy we call "Doctor" and this we call "Judge” ! That fellow's the "Speaker," the one on the right; "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the Royal Society thought it was true! So they chose him right in,—a good joke it was, too! There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith; You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun; Yes, we're boys, always playing with tongue or with pen; Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray ! Oliver W Holmes An Order for a Picture. O, good painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Woods and cornfields a little brown, The picture must not be over-bright,- Alway and alway, night and morn, Lying between them, not quite sere, Biting shorter the short green grass, These and the little house where I was born, With children, many as it can hold, Perhaps you may have seen, some day, Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir; one like me,— At ten years old he went to sea,— To bring us news, and she never came back. |