will rise up and call him blessed! Away, all ye Cæsars and Napoleons, to your own dark and frightful domains of slaughter and misery! Ye can no more endure the light of such a godlike presence, than the eye, already inflamed to torture by dissipation, can look the sun in the face at noonday.

CXLIX. TRIUMPH OF HOPE.

CIM-ME-RE-AN; from Cimmerium, (modern Crimea,) supposed by the ancients to be the darkest place in the world.

UNFADING Hope! when life's last embers burn,
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return,
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour;
Oh! then, thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power!
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye?
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day:
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin!
And all the phenix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!
Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh,
It is a dread and awful thing to die!
Mysterious worlds, untraveled by the sun!
Where Time's far wandering tide has never run,
From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres,
A warning comes, unheard by other ears.

'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and called upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss!
Daughter of faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb:

Melt, and dispel, ye specter-doubts, that roll
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul!
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay,
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er; the pangs of nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of heaven, undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still
Watched on the holy towers of Zion's hill!

FROM CAMPBELL.

CL. THE THREE HOMES.

"WHERE is thy home?" I asked a child,
Who, in the morning air,

Was twining flowers most sweet and wild
In garlands for her hair.

"My home," the happy heart replied,
And smiled in childish glee,
"Is on the sunny mountain side,
Where soft winds wander free."
O, blessings fall on artless youth,
And all its rosy hours,

When every word is joy and truth,
And treasures live in flowers.

"Where is thy home?" I asked of one
Who bent, with flushing face,

To hear a warrior's tender tone
In the wildwood's secret place.
She spoke not, but her varying cheek
The tale might well impart;

The home of her young spirit meek
Was in a kindred heart.

Ah! souls that well might soar above
To earth will fondly cling,

And build their hopes on human love,
That light and fragile thing.

NEW EC. S.-23

"Where is thy home, thou lonely man?"
I asked a pilgrim gray,

Who came with furrowed brow, and wan,
Slow musing on his way.

He paused, and with a solemn mien

Upturned his holy eyes;

"The land I seek thou ne'er hast seen,

My home is in the skies!

O, blessed, thrice blessed, the heart must be
To whom such thoughts are given,
That walks from worldly fetters free;
Its only home in heaven.

CLI.-J. Q. ADAMS.-No. I.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, one of the most distinguished of American statesmen, filled, with high honor, all the offices in the gift of his country. After retiring from the Presidency, he was chosen by his fellow-citizens to represent them again in Congress, where he died. This is an extract from a speech, delivered in the Senate on the occasion.

SILENCE is in the capitol, and sorrow has thrown its pall over the land. What new event is this? Has some Cromwell closed the legislative chambers? Or has some Cæsar, returning from his distant conquests, passed the Rubicon, seized the purple, and fallen in the Senate beneath the swords of self-appointed executioners of his country's vengeance? No! Nothing of all this.

What means, then, this abrupt and fearful silence? What unlooked-for calamity has quelled the debates of the Senate, and calmed the excitement of the people? An old man, whose tongue once, indeed, was eloquent, but now, through age, had well-nigh lost its cunning, has fallen into the swoon of death. He was not an actor in the drama of conquest, nor had his feeble voice yet mingled in the lofty argument,

"A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent

Was on the visioned future bent."

In the very act of rising to debate, he fell into the arms

of conscript fathers of the republic. A long lethargy supervened and oppressed his senses. Nature rallied the wasting powers, on the verge of the grave, for a very brief space. But it was long enough for him. The rekindled eye showed that the re-collected mind was clear, calm, and vigorous. His weeping family, and his sorrowing compeers, were there. He surveyed the scene, and knew at once its fatal import. He had left no duty unperformed. He had no wish unsatisfied; no ambition unattained; no regret, no sorrow, no fear, no remorse. He could not shake off the dews of death, that gathered on his brow. He could not pierce the thick shades that rose up before him.

But he knew that eternity lay close by the shores of time. He knew that his Redeemer lived. Eloquence, even in that hour, inspired him with his ancient sublimity of utcerance. "THIS," said the dying man, "THIS IS THE END OF EARTH." He paused for a moment, and then added, "I AM CONTENT." Angels might well draw aside the curtains of the skies to look down on such a scene; a scene that approximated even to that scene of unapproachable sublimity, not to be recalled without reverence, when in mortal agony, one who spoke as never man spake, said, “IT IS FINISHED." FROM SEWARD.

CLII.—J. Q. ADAMS..—No. II.

THIS is an extract from a speech, delivered in the House of Representatives, on the same occasion as the preceding, by Holmes, a member from South Carolina.

THE mingled tones of sorrow, like the voice of many waters, have come unto us from a sister state; Massachusetts, weeping for her honored son. It is meet, that in this the day of our affliction, we should mingle our griefs. When a great man falls, the nation mourns. When a patriarch is removed, the people weep. Ours, my associates, is no common bereavement. The chain, which linked our hearts with the gifted spirits of former times, has been

suddenly snapped. The lips, from which flowed those living and glorious truths that our fathers uttered, are closed in death.

Yes, my friends, Death has been among us! He has not entered the humble cottage of some unknown, ignoble peasant. He has knocked audibly at the palace of a nation! His footstep has been heard in the halls of state ! He has cloven down his victim in the midst of the councils of a people. He has borne in triumph from among you the gravest, wisest, most reverend head. Ah! he has taken him as a trophy, who was once chief over many statesmen, adorned with virtue, and learning, and truth. He has borne at his chariot wheels a renowned one of the earth.

How often we have crowded into that aisle, and clustered around that now vacant desk, to listen to the counsels of wisdom as they fell from the lips of the venerable sage, we can all remember, for it was but of yesterday. But what a change! How wondrous! how sudden! 'Tis like a vision of the night. That form which we beheld but a few days since, is now cold in death!

But the last sabbath, and in this hall he worshiped with others. Now, his spirit mingles with the noble army of martyrs and the just made perfect, in the eternal adoration of the living God. With him, "this is the end of earth." He sleeps the sleep that knows no waking. He is gone, and forever! The sun that ushers in the morn of that next holy day, while it gilds the lofty dome of the capitol, shall rest with soft and mellow light upon the consecrated spot, beneath whose turf forever lies the PATRIOT FATHER and the PATRIOT SAGE. FROM HOLMES.

CLIII. MEN WHO NEVER DIE.

WARREN; a General in the American army, who was killed at Bunker Hill, one of the first victims of the Revolution.

THE heroes of the past, we dismiss not to the chambers of forgetfulness and death. What we admired, and prized, and venerated in them, can never be forgotten. I had al