No matter what the journey be,- To the wild deep, or bleak frontier, Still something cheers the heart that dares, And they who go are happier Than those they leave behind. The bride goes to the bridegroom's home What comfort can she find But this, the gone is happier Than the one she leaves behind? Have you a trusty comrade dear,-- Be sure your term of sweet concourse And when you part, —as part you will,— O take it not unkind, If he who goes is happier God wills it so, and so it is: The pilgrims on their way, Though weak and worn, more cheerful are And when, at last, poor man, subdued, May he not still be happier far Than those he leaves behind? Edward Pollock. ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. As Adams and Jefferson, I have said, are no more. human beings, indeed, they are no more. They are no more, as in 1776, bold and fearless advocates of independence; no more, as on subsequent periods, the head of the government; no more, as we have recently seen them, aged and venerable objects of admiration and regard. They are no more. They are dead. But how little is there of the great and good which can die! To their country they yet live, and live forever. They live in all that 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 nomage 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 common 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, roused 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 centre; 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 mighty step, a great advance, not only in American affairs, but in 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 Daniel Webster. event. THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA POWDER. A Frenchman once,-so runs a certain ditty,-- And teach his neighbor, rough John Bull, to dance. Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale, In not a mild or very tender mood, From the same window where before she stood. 66 Hey, there," said she, "you Monsher Powder-man! Escape my clutches now, sir, if you can; I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen know Then spoke Monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh, "Ah, Madame! s'il vous plait, attendez vous,— My poudare gran! magnifique! why abuse him? First, you must wait until you catch de flea; And when he laugh,-aha! he ope his throat; IN THE OTHER WORLD. It lies around us like a cloud,— Its gentle breezes fan our cheek; Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, The silence,-awful, sweet, and calm,- So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, And in the hush of rest they bring, How lovely, and how sweet a pass To close the eye, and close the ear, Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, To feel all evil sink away, All sorrow and all care. Sweet souls around us! watch us still, Into our thoughts, into our prayers, Let death between us be as naught, Your joy be the reality, Our suffering life the dream. II. Beecher Stowe. VERY DARK. The crimson tide was ebbing, and the pulse grew weak and faint, But the lips of that brave soldier scorned e'en now to make complaint; "Fall in rank!" a voice called to him; calm and low was his reply: "Yes, I will if I can do it,-I will do it, though I die." And he murmured, when the life-light had died out to just a spark, "It is growing very dark, mother,-growing very dark." There were tears in mauly eyes, then, and manly heads were bowed, Though the balls flew thick around them, and the cannons thundered loud; |