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“Forego thy dreams of lettered ease,

Put thou the scholar's promise by, The rights of man are more than these." He heard, and answered :

Here am


He set his face against the blast,

His feet against the flinty shard, * Till the hard service grew, at last,

Its own exceeding great reward.

Beyond the dust and smoke he saw

The sheaves of freedom's large increase, The holy fanes of equal law,

The New Jerusalem of peace.

The first to smite, the first to spare ;

When once the hostile ensigns fell, He stretched out hands of generous care

To lift the foe he fought so well.

For there was nothing base or small

Or craven in his soul's broad plan; Forgiving all things personal,

He hated only wrong to man.

The old traditions of his State,

The memories of her great and good, Took from his life a fresher date,

And in himself embodied stood.

If than Rome's tribunes statelier

He wore his senatorial robe, His lofty port was all for her,

The one dear spot on all the globe.

* A fragment of any brittle substance.

Proud was he? If his presence kept

Its grandeur whereso'er he trod, As if from Plutarch's gallery stepped

The hero and the demigod,

None failed, at least, to reach his ear,

Nor want nor woe appealed in vain ; The homesick soldier knew his cheer,

And blessed him from his ward of pain.

He cherished, void of selfish ends,

The social courtesies that bless
And sweeten life, and loved his friends

With most unworldly tenderness.

His state-craft was the Golden Rule;

His right of vote a sacred trust; Clear, over threat and ridicule,

All heard his challenge, “Is it just ?"

Long shall the good State's annals tell,

Her children's children long be taught, How, praised or blamed, he guarded well

The trust he neither shunned nor sought.

The lifted sword above her shield

With jealous care shall guard his fame; The pine-tree on her ancient field

To all the winds shall speak his name.

O State, so passing rich before,

Who now shall doubt thy highest claim ? The world that counts thy jewels o'er

Shall longest pause at Sumner's name.



A ,

ND what is so rare as a day in June ?

Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays : Whether we look or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace: The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives ; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay.
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it ;

No matter how barren the past may have been, 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may

shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing ; The breeze comes whispering in our ear That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving ;
'T is as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,
'Tis the natural way of living :
Who knows whither the clouds have fled ?
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake,
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrows and ache ;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.
What wonder if Sir Launfal now
Remembered the keeping of his vow?



WILLIA31 HENRY SEWARD was born in Florida, New York, May 16, 1801; was graduated at Union College in 1819, and admitted to the bar in 1822. He died at Auburn, New York, October 10, 1872. Without neglecting his professional duties, he early engaged in politics, and in 1838 was chosen governor of New York by the Whigs, and was re-elected in 1846. In February, 1849, he was chosen to the Senate of the United States, and continued a member of that body till the election of President Lincoln, when he became a member of his Cabinet as Secretary of State. During his career in the Senate he was remarkable for the ability and consistency with which he maintained the policy and principles of the antislavery party, but he by no means confined his attention to this subject, but spoke upon a variety of questions connected with the commercial and industrial relations of the country. He was a man of patient and persevering industry, and his speeches, which were always carefully prepared, are honorably distinguished for their decorum of tone and their great literary merit. His writings have been published in four octavo volumes, with a biographical memoir and historical notes.

The following extracts are from a eulogy delivered before the Irish citizens of New York, upon the life and character of Daniel O'Connell, the distinguished champion of the liberties of Ireland. This was one of his most powerful efforts, full of eloquent allusions, historic references, and touches of tender pathos and sorrow.

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HERE is sad news from Genoa. An aged and weary

pilgrim, who can travel no farther, passes beneath the gate of one of her ancient palaces, saying, with pious resignation, as he enters its silent chambers, “Well, it is God's will that I shall never see Rome. I am disappointed, but I am ready to die.”

The “superb,” though fading queen of the Mediterranean holds anxious watch through ten long days over that majestic stranger's wasting frame. And now death is there, - the Liberator of Ireland has sunk to rest in the cradle of Columbus.

Coincidence beautiful and most sublime! It was the very day set apart by the elder daughter of the Church for prayer and sacrifice throughout the world for the children of the sacred island, perishing by famine and pestilence in their houses and in their native fields, and


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