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1. WHEN public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, further than

it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion.

2. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it: they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force.

3. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius. itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then, patriotism is eloquent: then, self-devotion is eloquent.

4. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward, to his object-this, this is eloquence; or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence, it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action.

CVIII.-ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

1. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day!

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea:
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.

GRAY.

2. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

3. Save, that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

4. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mold'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

5. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow, twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
6. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
Nor children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

7. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield:

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke :
How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

8. Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
9. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await, alike, the inevitable hour:

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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

10. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

11. Can storied urn or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

12. Perhaps, in this-neglected spot, is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire:
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ccstasy the living lyre.

13. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll:
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

14. Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

15. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his field withstood:
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest:

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

16. The applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

17. Their lot forbade; nor, circumscribed alone

Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined:
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind:

18. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide :
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame;
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,

With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

19. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray: Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

20. Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still, erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

21. Their names, their years, spell'd by the unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,
Teaching the rustic moralist to die.

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