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hazard, that they may live in the hearts of those who come after. Such men do not, cannot die.

3. To be cold, and motionless, and breathless; to feel not and speak not; this is not the end of existence to the men who have breathed their spirits into the institutions of their country, who have stamped their characters on the pillars of the age, who have poured their heart's blood into the channels of the public prosperity. Tell me, ye who tread the sods of yon sacred hight, is Warren dead? Can you not still see him, not pale and prostrate, the blood of his gallant heart pouring out of his ghastly wound, but moving resplendent over the field of honor, with the rose of heaven

upon his cheek, and the fire of liberty in his eye? 4. Tell me, ye who make your pious pilgrimage to the shades of Vernon, is Washington indeed shut up in that cold and narrow house? That which made these inen, and men like these, cannot die. The hand that traced the Charter of Independence is, indeed, motionless; the eloquent lips that sustained it are hushed; but the lofty spirits that conceived, resolved, matured, maintained it, and which alone, to such men, “make it life to live,”these cannot expire;

“ These shall resist the empire of decay,
When time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away;
Cold in the dust the perish'd heart may lie,
But that which warm'd it once can never die."




WILLIAM COWPER, an English poet, was born in 1731, and died in 1800. Mr. Southey says of him, “ The most popular poet of his generation, and the best of English letter-writers." In his sixth year he lost his mother, whose memory he tenderly and affectionately cherished during the rest of his life. 1. Oh, that those lips had language ! Life has pass'd

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine ; thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me:
Voice only fails; else how distinct they say,
“Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away.”
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,

The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

To quench it !) here shines on me still the same. 2. My mother! when I learn’d that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.

Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers, “ Yes!" 3. I heard the bell tolld on thy burial-day,

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery-window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

The parting word sball pass my lips no more.
4. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I prick'd them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,)
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart; the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no! What here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I would ill requite thee to constrain

Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
o Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast

line storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift, hast reach'd the shore
“Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.

6. Bat me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,

Always from port withheld, always distress'd, -
Me howling blasts drive devious, tem pest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost;
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he !
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,-
The son of parents pass’d into the skies.




1. You have taken me prisoner, with all my warriors. I am much grieved; for I expected, if I did not defeat you, to hold out much longer, and give you more trouble before I surrendered. I tried hard to bring you into ambush; but your last general understood Indian fighting. I determined to rush on you and fight you face to face. I fought hard. But your guns were well aimed. The bullets flew like birds in the air, and whizzed by our ears like the wind through the trees in winter. My warriors fell around me; it began to look dismal. I saw my evil day at hand. The sun rose dim on us in the morning, and at night it sank in a dark cloud, and looked like a ball of fire. That was the last sun that shone on Black Hawk.

2. His heart is dead, and no longer beats quick in his bosom. He is now a prisoner to the white men ; they will do with him as they wish.

But he can stand torture, and is not afraid of death. He is no coward. Black Hawk is an Indian. He has done nothing for which an Indian ought to be ashamed. He has fought for his countrymen, against white men who came, year after year, to cheat them and take away their lands. You know the cause of our making war. It is known to all white men. They ought to be ashamed of it. The white men despise the Indians, and drive them from their homes. They smile in the face of the poor Indian to cheat him; they shake him by the hand to gain his confidence, to make him drunk, and to deceive him.

3. We told them to let us alone and keep away from us, but they followed on and beset our paths, and they coiled themselves among us like the snake. They poisoned us by their touch. We were not safe. We lived in danger. We looked up to the Great Spirit. We went to our father. We were encouraged. His great council gave us fair words and big promises, but we got no satisfaction; things were growing worse. There were no deer in the forest. The opossum and the beaver were filed. The springs were drying up, and our squaws and pappooses without victuals to keep them from starving.

4. We called a great council, and built a large fire. The spirit of our fathers arose and spoke to us to avenge our wrongs or die. We set up the war-whoop, and dug up the tomahawk; our knives were ready, and the heart of Black Hawk swelled high in his bosom when he led his warriors to battle. He is satisfied. He will go to the world of spirits contented. He has done his duty. His father will meet him there and commend him. Black Hawk is a true Indian, and disdains to cry like a woman. He feels for his wife, his children, and his friends. But he does not care for himself. He cares for the nation and the Indians. They will suffer. He laments their fate.

5. Farewell, my nation! Black Hawk tried to save you and avenge your wrongs.

He drank the blood of some of the whites. He has been taken prisoner, and his plans are stopped. He can do no more

He is near his end. His sun is setting, and he will rise no more. Farewell to Black Hawk !




LYDIA HUNTLEY, now Mrs. Sigourney, was born at Norwich, Conn., in 1791. She has written much and written well.

1. YE say they have all pass'd away,

That noble race and brave,-
That their light canoes have vanish'd

From off the crested wave;
That 'mid the forest where they roam'd

There rings no hunter's shout:
But their name is on your waters;

Ye may not wash it out.

2. 'Tis where Ontario's billow

Like ocean's surge is curld,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wako

The echo of the world;
Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tribute from the West,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps

On green Virginia's breast.
3. Ye say their cone-like cabins,

That cluster'd o'er the vale,
Have disappear'd as wither'd leaves

Before the autumn gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills,

Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak

Their dialect of yore.
4. Old Massachusetts wears it

Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown;.
Connecticut hath wreathed it

Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse

Through all her ancient caves.
5. Wachusett hides its lingering voice

Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone

Throughout his lofty chart;
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar,

Doth seal the sacred trust :
Your mountains build their monument,

Though ye destroy their dust.



1. FRIEND AND BROTHER :-It was the will of the Great Spirit that we should meet together this day. He orders all things, and has given us a fine day for our council. He has taken his garment from before the sun, and caused it to shine

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