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it. Blood, slaughter, desolation, spread abroad over the land; and, finally, the conflagration of the old commercial metropolis of Russia closes the retribution; she must pay for her share in the dismemberment of her impotent neighbor.
Mr. President, a mind more prone to look for the judgments of Heaven in the doings of men than mine cannot fail, in all unjust acqusitions of territory, to see the Providence of God. When Moscow burned, it seemed as if the earth was lighted up, that the nations might behold the
As that mighty sea of fire gathered and heaved and rolled upward, and yet higher, till its flames licked the stars, and fired the whole heavens, it did seem as though the God of the nations was writing, in characters of flames, on the front of His throne, that doom that shall fall upon the strong nation which tramples in scorn upon the weak.
And what fortune awaits him, the appointed executor of this work, when it was all done? He, too, conceived the notion that his destiny pointed onward to universal dominion. France was too small,-Europe he thought should bow down before him. But as soon as this idea takes possession of his soul, he too becomes powerless. His terminus must recede too. Right there, while he witnessed the humiliation, and, doubtless, meditated the subjugation of Russia, He who holds the winds in His fist, gathered the snows of the North, and blew them upon his six hundred thousand men. They fled—they froze—they perished.
And now the mighty Napoleon, who had resolved on universal dominion, he too, is summoned to answer for the violation of that ancient law, “Thou shalt not covet anything which is thy neighbor's.” How is the mighty fallen! He, beneath whose proud footstep Europe trembled, he is now an exile at Elba, and now, finally, a prisoner on the rock of St. Helena—and there on a barren island, in an unfrequented sea, in the crater of an extinguished volcano, there is the death-bed of the mighty conqueror. All his annexations have come to that! His last hour is now at hand; and he,
DIMES AND DOLLARS.
the man of destiny, he who had rocked the world as with the throes of an earthquake, is now powerless, still—even as the beggar, so he died.
On the wings of a tempest that raged with unwonted fury, up to the throne of the only Power that controlled him while he lived, went to the fiery soul of that wonderful warrior, another witness to the existence of that eternal decree, that they who do not rule in righteousness shall perish from the earth. He has found “room” at last. And France, she too has found “room." Her “ eagles” now no longer scream along the banks of the Danube, the Po, and the Borysthenes. They have returned home to their old aërie, between the Alps, the Rhine, and the Pyrenees.
So shall it be with yours. You may carry them to the loftiest peaks of the Cordilleras; they may wave, with insolent triunzph, in the halls of the Montezumas; the armed men of Mexico may quail before them; but the weakest hand in Mexico, uplifted in prayer to the God of Justice, may call down against you a Power in the presence of which the iron hearts of your warriors shall be turned into
DIMES AND DOLLARS.
" Dimes and dollars ! dollars and dimes !"
A sound on the gong, and the miser rose,
And locked secure. " These are the times
Thickly the hour of midnight fell; Doors and windows were bolted well. " Ha!”
" cried the miser, “not so bad :A thousand guineas to-day I've made. Money makes money ; these are the times To double and treble the dollars and dimes. Now to sleep, and to-morrow to plan ;Rest is sweet to a wearied man." And he fell to sleep with the midnight chimes, Dreaming of glittering dollars and dimes.
The sun rose high, and its beaming ray
What now avails the chinking chimes
THE DEAD DRUMMER-BOY.
Use them ill, and a thousand crimes
THE DEAD DRUMMER-BOY.
Midst tangled roots that lined the wild ravine,
Where the fierce fight raged hottest through the day,
Speechless in death he lay.
The setting sun, which glanced athwart the place
In slanting lines, like amber-tinted rain,
In one bright crimson stain.
The silken fringes of his once bright eye
Lay like a shadow on his cheek so fair ; His lips were parted by a long-drawn sigh, That with his soul had mounted to the sky
On some wild martial air.
No more his hand the fierce tattoo shall beat,
The shrill reveillé, or the long-roll's call,
And gallant men shall fall.
Yet maybe in some happy home, that one
A mother--reading from the list of dead,
And bow in grief lier head.
But more than this what tongue shall tell his story?
Perhaps his boyish longin_s were for fame? He lived, he died ; and so, meinento inori, Enough if on the page of War and Glory
Some hand has writ his name.
There is a land, of every land the pride,