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So we shuddered there in silence-
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with death.

As there we sat in darkness,

Each one busy with his prayers, "We are losti" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand;
"Isn't God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,

And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.



How many there are who thirst for military glory; and what sacrifices would they not make to obtain it! We have long been spectators of the great tragedy which has been actedon the theatre of Europe, and our imaginations have become inflamed. We have beheld mighty hosts encountering each other, desperate battles fought and victories won. We think of the triumphant march, the blood stained banner, the captured artillery, and all the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war," till many of us would willingly face danger and death itself, to acquire a renown equal to that of some favorite hero.

Yet the laurel of the conqueror grows only in a soil which is moistened with blood. It is stained with the tears of the widow, and it thrives in the midst of desolation. Nor is it durable.


all the annals of destruction, how few are the names which we remember and pronounce!

But is there glory which is pure and enduring, and which deserves to be sought? Yes, the love of fame is a noble passion, given us not to be extinguished, but to be used aright. There is a glory which a wise man will covet, which a good man will aspire to, which will follow him from this world to the next; and there, in the presence of an assembled universe of angels, and of just men made perfect, place a crown upon his brow that fadeth not away.



[Tenderly and with feeling.]

'Twas whispered, one morning, in Heaven
How the little child-angel May,

In the shade of the great white portal,
Sat sorrowing night and day.

How she said to the stately warden

He of the key and bar

"O angel, sweet angel, I pray you,

Set the beautiful gates ajar

Only a little, I pray you—

Set the beautiful gates ajar!

"I can hear my mother weeping;
She is lonely; she cannot see
A glimmer of light in the darkness,
Where the gates shut after me.

Oh, turn the key, sweet angel,

The splendor will shine so far!'
But the warden answered, "I dare not
Set the beautiful gates ajar

Spoke low, and answered, "I dare not
Set the beautiful gates ajar!"


Then rose up Mary, the blessed,
Sweet Mary, mother of Christ;
Her hand on the head of the angel

She laid, and her touch sufficed;
Turned was the key in the portal,
Fell, ringing, the guiden bar,
And lo! in the little child's fingers
Stood the beautiful gates ajar!
In the little child-angel's fingers
Stood the beautiful gates ajar!

"And this key, for further using,
To my blessed Son shall be given,"
Said Mary, mother of Jesus,
Tenderest heart in Heaven.
Now, never a sad-eyed mother
But may catch the glory afar,
Since safe in the Lord Christ's bosom
Are the keys of the gates ajar,
Close hid in the dear Christ's bosom
And the gates forever ajar!


[With vigor and distinctness.]

Here's the spot. Look around you.

Above on the height

Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right
Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall—

You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball,

Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,

Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heard

Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word

Down at Springfield? What, no? Come-that's bad; why he had
All the Jerseys aflame! And they gave him the name

Of the "rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge,
For he loved the Lord God and he hated King George!

He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians, that day,
Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way
At the "Farms" where his wife, with a child in her arms,
Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew
But God and that one of the hireling crew

Who fired the shot! Enough! there she lay,
And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away.
Did he preach-did he pray? think of him as you stand
By the old church to-day; think of him and that band
Of militant ploughboys! see the smoke and the heat
Of that reckless advance—of that straggling retreat!
Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view-
What could you, what should you, what would you do?
Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurch
For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church,
Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road
With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load
At their feet! Then, above all the shouting and shots,
Rung his voice-"Put Watts into 'em-boys-give 'em Watts !"
And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow,

Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball-
But not always a hero like this—and that's all.



[Give the two pieces following in a forcible manner.]

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Thousands of men breathe, move and live, pass off the stage of life and are heard of no more Why? They did not a particle of good in the world, and none were blessed by them as instruments of

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