4

5

And thou must sail upon this sea, a long,

Eventful voyage.

The foolish must.

The wise may suffer wreck,

O! then be early wise!

Learn from the mariner his skilful art

To ride upon the waves, and catch the breeze,
And dare the threatening storm, and trace a path
Mid countless dangers, to the destined port,
Unerringly secure. O! learn from him

To station quick-eyed Prudence at the helm,
To guard thy sail from Passion's sudden blasts,
And make Religion thy magnetic guide,
Which, though it trembles as it lowly lies,
Points to the light that changes not, in Heaven.

Farewell- Heaven smile propitious on thy course,

And favoring breezes waft thee to the arms
Of love paternal. — Yes, and more than this
Blest be thy passage o'er the changing sca
Of life; the clouds be few that intercept.
The light of joy; the waves roll gently on
Beneath thy bark of hope, and bear thee safe
To meet in peace thine other father, God.

CVIII. THE DEATH OF HAMILTON.

NOTT.

[ELIPHALET NOTT was born in Ashford, Connecticut, June 25, 1773, and died January 29, 1866. He was chosen president of Union College in 1804, and was previously pastor of a church in Albany. It was there that he preached the sermon, of which the following is a portion. It produced a great effect, as the whole nation was deeply moved at the death of Alexander Hamilton, an eminent statesman and soldier, who was killed in a duel by Aaron Burr, July 11, 1804. Dr. Nott published "Lectures on Temperance," and "Counsels to Young Men," and spent much time in experiments and researches connected with the application of the laws of heat to the arts of life.]

A SHORT time since, and he, who is the occasion of our sorrows, was the ornament of his country. He stood on

an eminence, and glory covered him. From that emi

nence he has fallen, suddenly, forever fallen.

His intercourse with the living world is now ended; and those who would hereafter find him, must seek him in the grave. 5 There, cold and lifeless, is the heart which just now was the seat of friendship; there, dim and sightless, is the eye whose radiant and enlivening orb beamed with intelligence; and there, closed forever, are those lips on whose persuasive accents we have so often and so lately hung 10 with transport.

From the darkness which rests upon his tomb there proceeds, methinks, a light, in which it is clearly seen that those gaudy objects which men pursue are only phantoms. In this light how dimly shines the splendor of victory! 15 how humble appears the majesty of grandeur! The bubble, which seemed to have so much solidity, has burst; and we again see that all below the sun is vanity.

True, the funeral eulogy has been pronounced, the sad and solemn procession has moved, the badge of mourning 20 has already been decreed, and presently the sculptured marble will lift up its front, proud to perpetuate the name of Hamilton, and rehearse to the passing traveller his virtues (just tributes of respect, and, to the living, useful); but to him, mouldering in his narrow and humble habita25 tion, what are they? How vain! how unavailing!

Approach, and behold, while I lift from his sepulchre its covering! Ye admirers of his greatness! ye emulous of his talents and his fame! approach and behold him now! How pale! how silent! No martial bands admire 30 the adroitness of his movements; no fascinating throng weep and melt and tremble at his eloquence! Amazing change! a shroud! a coffin! a narrow, subterraneous cabin! - this is all that now remains of Hamilton! And is this all that remains of Hamilton? During a life so 35 transitory, what lasting monument, then, can our fondest hopes erect!

My brethren, we stand on the borders of an awful gulf, which is swallowing up all things human. And is there, amidst this universal wreck, nothing stable, nothing abiding, nothing immortal, on which poor, frail, dying man 5 can fasten? Ask the hero, ask the statesman, whose wisdom you have been accustomed to revere, and he will tell you. He will tell you, did I say? He has already told you, from his death-bed; and his illumined spirit still whispers from the heavens, with well known eloquence, 10 the solemn admonition: "Mortals hastening to the tomb, and once the companions of my pilgrimage, take warning and avoid my errors; cultivate the virtues I have recommended; choose the Saviour I have chosen; live disinterestedly; live for immortality; and would you rescue anything from final dissolution, lay it up in God.”

1

YET while, by life's endearments crowned,
To mark this day we gather round,
And to our nation's founders raise
The voice of gratitude and praise,

Shall not one line lament that lion race,
For us struck out from sweet creation's face?

Alas, alas for them! those fated bands,

Whose monarch tread was on these broad, green lands.

Our fathers called them savage,

them, whose bread,

In the dark hour those famished fathers fed.

2 We call them savage. O, be just!
Their outraged feelings scan;

A voice comes forth, 't is from the dust,

The savage was a man!

Think ye he prayed not? When on high
He heard the thunders roll,
What bade him look beyond the sky?
The savage had a soul!

8 I venerate the Pilgrim's cause,

Yet for the red man dare to plead
We bow to Heaven's recorded laws,
He turned to Nature for a creed
Beneath the pillared dome,

We seek our God in prayer;

Through boundless woods he loved to roam,
And the Great Spirit worshipped there.
But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt;
To one divinity with us he knelt;

Freedom, the self-same freedom we adore,

- Bade him defend his violated shore.

He saw the cloud, ordained to grow
And burst upon his hills in woe;
He saw his people withering by,
Beneath the invader's evil eye;

Strange feet were trampling on his fathers' bones;
At midnight hour he woke to gaze
Upon his happy cabin's blaze,

And listen to his children's dying groans.

He saw, and, maddening at the sight,
Gave his bold bosom to the fight;
To tiger-rage his soul was driven;
Mercy was not, or sought, or given;
The pale man from his lands must fly, -
He would be free, or he would die.

Their fires are out from hill and shore;
No more for them the wild deer bounds;
The plough is on their hunting-grounds;
The pale man's axe rings through their woods;
The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods;
Their pleasant springs are dry;

Their children,-look! by power oppressed,
Beyond the mountains of the west
Their children go-to die!

4 0, doubly lost! Oblivion's shadows close
Around their triumphs and their woes.
On other realms, whose suns have set,
Reflected radiance lingers yet;

There sage and bard have shed a light
That never shall go down in night;
There time-crowned columns stand on high,
To tell of them who cannot die;

Even we, who then were nothing, kneel

In homage there, and join earth's general peal.
But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace
To save his own, or serve another race;

With his frail breath his power has passed away;
His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay;
Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page,

Shall link him to a future age,

Or give him with the past a rank;

His heraldry is but a broken bow,

His history but a tale of wrong and woe,
very name must be a blank.

His

5 Cold, with the beast he slew he sleeps;
O'er him no filial spirit weeps;

No crowds throng round, no anthem notes ascend,
To bless his coming and embalm his end;