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an eminence, and glory covered him. From that eminence 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, O 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
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 loved not? Who stood by,
And in his toils took part?
Woman was there to bless his eye, -

The savage had a heart!
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!

3 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.

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Alas for them! - their day is o'er,
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 O, 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,

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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;

Even that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue;
By foes alone his death-song must be sung:
No chronicles but theirs shall tell

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[Extract from a speech delivered in the House of Representatives by HON. C. NAYLOR, Member of Congress from Pennsylvania.]

THE gentleman, sir, has misconceived the spirit and tendency of northern institutions. He is ignorant of northern character. He has forgotten the history of his country. Preach insurrection to the northern laborers! 5 Who are the northern laborers? The history of your country is their history. The renown of your country is their renown. The brightness of their doings is emblazoned on its every page. Blot from your annals the words and the doings of northern laborers, and the history of 10 your country presents but a universal blank.

Sir, who was he that disarmed the Thunderer; wrested from his grasp the bolts of Jove; calmed the troubled ocean; became the central sun of the philosophical system of his age, shedding his brightness and effulgence on the 15 whole civilized world; whom the great and mighty of the earth delighted to honor; who participated in the achievement of your independence, prominently assisted in moulding your free institutions, and the beneficial effects of whose wisdom will be felt to the last moment of "recorded 20 time?" Who, sir, I ask, was he? A northern laborer, a Yankee tallow-chandler's son, a printer's runaway boy!

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