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That woo'd me to its bosom: Raleigh's fame,
It pass'd away,
And lifted hair, I floated on, till sense
I awoke, and heard
JOHN A. ANDREW.
THE heart swells with unwonted emotion when we remember our sons and brothers whose constant valor has sustained, on the field, the cause of our country, of civilization, and liberty. On the ocean, on the rivers, on the land, on the heights where they thundered down from the clouds of Lookout Mountain the defiance of the skies, they have graven with their swords a record imperishable.
The Muse herself demands the lapse of silent years to soften, by the influences of Time, her too keen and poignant realization of the scenes of War—the pathos, the heroism, the fierce joy, the grief of battle. But, during the ages to come, she will brood over their memory. Into the hearts of her consecrated priests she will breathe the inspirations of lofty and undying beauty, sublimity, and truth, in all the glowing forms of speech, of literature, and plastic art. By the homely traditions of the fireside,—by the head-stones in the church-yard consecrated to those whose forms repose far off in rude graves by the Rappahannock, or sleep beneath the sea-embalmed in the memories of succeeding generations of parents and children, the heroic dead will live on in immortal youth. By their names, their character, their service, their fate, their glory, they cannot fail :
- They never fail who die
Their heads may sodden in the sun, their limbs
The world at last to FREEDOM." The edict of Nantes, maintaining the religious liberty of the Huguenots, gave lustre to the fame of Henry the Great, whose name will gild the pages of history after mankind may have forgotten the material prowess and the white plume of Navarre. The Great Proclamation of Liberty will lift the ruler who uttered it, our nation and our age, above all vulgar destiny.
The bell which rang out the Declaration of Independence has found at last a voice articulate, to “ proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof." It has been heard across oceans, and has modified the sentiments of cabinets and kings. The people of the Old World have heard it, and their hearts stop to catch the last whisper of its echoes. · The poor slave has heard it, and with bounding joy, tempered by the mystery of religion, he worships and adores. The waiting continent has heard it, and already foresees the fulfilled prophecy, when she will sit “redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled by the irresistible. Genius of Universal Emancipation.”
THE CLOSING YEAR.
GEORGE D. PRENTIOE.
'Tis midnight's loly hour,-and silence now
THE CLOSING YEAR.
With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest
Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard's voice of Time Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have passed away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness.
Has gone, and with it, many a glorious throng
It passed o'er The battle-plain where sword, and spear, and shield, Flashed in the light of mid-day,—and the strength Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came, And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; Yet ere it melted in the viewless air It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams.
Remorseless Time! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe !—what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity ? On, still on, He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's 'unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag,--but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions.
Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow,-cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water,--fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns,-mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain,-new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations,--and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter a while in their eternal depths,