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grave blots them out forever. But there are other distinctions which even the mace of Death cannot level or obliterate. Can it break down the distinction of virtue and vice ? Can it confound the good with the bad, the noble with the base ? All that is truly great, and pure, and God-like, with all that is scorned, and sinful, and degraded ? No! Then Death is not a common leveler.

4. Are all alike beloved in death and honored in their burial ? Is that ground holy where the bloody hand of the murderer sleeps from crime? Does every grave awaken the same emotion in our hearts ? and do the footsteps of the stranger pause as long beside each funeral stone? No! Then all are not equal in the grave! And as long as the good and evil deeds of men live after them', so long will there be distinctions even in the grave'.

5. The superiority of one over another is in the nobler and better emotions which it excites'; in its more fervent admonitions to virtue'; in the livelier recollection which it awakens of the good and the great whose bodies are crumbling to dust beneath our feet'! If, then, there are distinctions in the grave, surely it is not unwise to designate them by the external marks of honor. These outward appliances and memorials of respect'—the mournful urn', the sculptured bust', the epitaph eloquent in praise' cannot, indeed, create these distinctions', but they serve to mark them'.

6. It is only when pride or wealth builds them to honor the slave of mammon or the slave of appetite,—when the voice from the grave rebukes the false and pompous epitaph, and the dust and ashes of the tomb seem struggling to maintain the superiority of mere worldly rank and to carry into the grave the baubles of earthly vanity, —it is then, and then only, that we feel how utterly worthless are all the devices of sculpture and the empty pomp of monumental brass.





I PAUSE and think .
Among the walls lined by the frequent tombs ;
For it is very wonderful. Afar
The populous city lifts its tall, bright spires
The snowy sails are glancing on the bay,

As if in merriment: but here all sleep ;
They sleep,—these calm pale people of the past :
Spring plants her rosy feet on their dim homes ;
They sleep!


Sweet Summer comes and calls', and calls', With all her passionate poetry of flowers, Wed to the music of the soft south wind'; They sleep'! The lonely Autumn sits and sobs Between the cold white tombs, as if her heart Would break; they sleep! Wild winter comes and chants Majestical the mournful sagas learn'd Far in the melancholy North, where God Walks forth alone upon the desolate seas; They slumber still! Sleep on!, O passionless dead' ! Ye make our world sublime': ye have a power And majesty the living never hold.

3. Here Avarice shall forget his den of gold'!

Here Lust his beautiful victim', and hot Hate
His crouching foe! Ambition here shall lean
Against Death's shaft, vailing the stern, bright eye
That, over-bold, would take the hight of gods,
And know Fame's nothingness. The sire shall come, –
The matron and the child,—through many years,
To this fair spot, whither the plumód hearse
Moves slowly through the winding walks, or Death
For a brief moment pauses.

All shall come
To feel the touching eloquence of graves :
And therefore it was well for us to clothe

The place with beauty. 4.

No dark terror here
Shall chill the generous tropic of the soul',
But Poetry, and her starr'd comrade, Art',
Shall make the sacred country of the dead
Magnificent. The fragrant flowers shall smile
Over the low, green graves'; the trees shall shake
Their soul-like cadences upon the tombs';
The little lake', set in a paradise
Of wood', shall be a mirror to the moon
What time she looks from her imperial tent
In long delight at all below'; the sea
Shall lift some stately dirge he loves to breathe
Over dead nations', while calm sculptures stand

On every hill', and look like spirits there

That drink the harmony'. 5.

Oh, it is well!
Why should a darkness scowl on any spot
Where man grasps immortality ? Light', light',
And art', and poetry', and eloquence',
And all that we call glorious', are its dower.
Oye whose moldering frames were brought and placea
By pious hands within these flowery slopes
And gentle hills, where are ye dwelling now?
For man is more than element. The soul
Lives in the body, as the sunbeam lives

In trees or flowers that were but clay without.
6. Then where are ye, lost sunbeams of the mind ?

Are ye where great Orion towers and holds
Eternity on his stupendous front?
Or where pale Neptune in the distant space
Shows us how far, in his creative mood,
With pomp of silence and concentred brows,
Walk'à forth the Almighty ? Haply ye have gone
Where other matter roundeth into shapes
Of bright beatitude: or do ye

Aught of dull space or time, and its dark load

Of aching weariness? 7.

They answer not.
But He whose love created them of old,
To cheer his solitary realm and reign,
With love will still remember them.




1. This is a speech, brief, but full of inspiration and opening the way to all victory. The mystery of Napoleon's career was this :under all difficulties and discouragements, “ Press on !". It solves the problem of all heroes'; it is the rule by which to weigh rightly all wonderful successes', and triumphal marches to fortune and genius'

2. It should be the motto of all', old' and young', high' and now,' fortunate' and unfortunate', so called. “Press on'!” Never despair; never be discouraged; however stormy the heavens, however dark the way, however great the difficulties and repeated the failures, “Press on !”

3. If Fortune has played false with thee to-day', do thou play true to thyself to-morrow. If thy riches have taken wings and left thee', do not weep thy life away', but be up and doing', and retrieve the loss by new energies and action! If an unfortunate bargain has deranged thy business', do not fold thy arms', and give up all as lost", but stir thyself and work the more vigorously

4. If those whom thou hast trusted have betrayed thee', do not be discouraged'; do not idly weep'; but “Press on'!” find others'; or, what is better, learn to live within thyself". Let the foolishness of yesterday' make thee wise to-day! If thy affections have been poured out', like water in the desert', do not sit down and perish of thirst', but press on': a beautiful oasis is before thee, and thou mayst reach it if thou wilt.

5. If another has been false to thee, do not increase the evil by being false to thyself. Do not say the world has lost its poetry and beauty: 'tis not so; and, even if it be so, make thine own poetry and beauty by a brave', a true', and, above all, a religious', life.




1. HIGHER, higher will we climb

Up the mount of glory,
That our names may live through time

In our country's story :
Happy, when her welfare calls',

He who conquers, he who falls'.
2. Deeper, deeper let us toil

In the mines of knowledge;
Nature's wealth, and learning's spoil',

Win from school and college':
Delve we there for richer gems
Than the stars of diadems.

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1. “WHERE should the scholar live'?” In solitude', or in so ciety'? In the green stillness of the country, where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man? I will make answer for him, and say, In the dark, gray town. Oh, they do greatly err who think that the stars are the only poetry which cities have, and therefore that the poet's only dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roof of trees. Beautiful', no doubt, are all the forms of nature', when transfigured by the miraculous power of poetry',-hamlets, and harvest-fields, and nut-brown waters'; flowing ever under the forest', vast and shadowy', with all the sight and sounds of rural life.

2. But, after all, what are these but the decorations and painted scenery in the great theater of human life? What are they but the coarse materials of the poet's song? Glorious, indeed, is the world of God around us; but more glorious the world of God within us'. There lies the land of song'; there lies the poet's land'. The river of life that flows through streets tumultuous,

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