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Aid it, hopes of honest men;
Aid it, paper; aid it, type;
Aid it, for the hour is ripe,

And our earnest must not slacken
Into play.

Men of thought, and men of action,
Clear the way!

Lo! a cloud's abeut to vanish
From the day;

And a brazen wrong to crumble
Into clay!

Lo! the right's about to conquer;
Clear the way!

With the right shall many more
Enter smiling at the door;
With the giant wrong shall fall
Many others great and sn:all,
That for ages long have held us
For their prey.

Men of thought, and men of action,
Clear the way!

XCVI.-PRESS ON.

PRESS on! Surmount the rocky steeps,
Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch:
He fails alone who feebly creeps,

He wins who dares the hero's march.
Be thou a hero! let thy might
Tramp on eternal snows its way,
And, through the ebon walls of night,
Hew down a passage unto day.

Press on! If once and twice thy feet
Slip back and stumble, harder try;
From him who never dreads to meet
Danger and death, they're sure to fly.
To coward ranks the bullet speeds,
While on their breasts who never quail,
Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds,
Bright courage, like a coat of mail.

Press on! If Fortune play thee false
To-day, to-morrow she'll be true;
Whom now she sinks, she now exalts,
Taking old gifts and granting new.
The wisdom of the present hour

Makes up for follies, past and gone:
To weakness strength succeeds, and power
From frailty springs. Press on! press on!
Therefore, press on! and reach the goal
And gain the prize, and wear the crown:
Faint not! for to the steadfast soul

Come wealth, and honor, and renown.
To thine own self be true, and keep

Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil;
Press on! and thou shalt surely reap

A heavenly harvest for thy toil!

XCVII.-WHERE SHOULD THE SCHOLAR LIVE?

WHERE should the scholar live? In solitude or society? In the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of nature beat, or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man? I will make answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray city. Oh, they do greatly err, who think, that the stars are all the poetry which cities have; and therefore, that the poet's only dwelling should be in silvan 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 sights and sounds of rural life. 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 native land. The river of life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearing along

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so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity; the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass; and to be in this and be a part of this; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, with his fellow-men; such, such should be the poet's life.

If he would describe the world, he should live in the world. The mind of the scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds. It is better that his armor should be somewhat bruised even by rude encounters, than hang forever rusting on the wall. Nor will his themes be few or trivial, because apparently shut in between the walls of houses, and having merely the decorations of street scenery.

A ruined character is as picturesque as a ruined castle. There are dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the human heart, which can be rendered passable only by bridging them over with iron nerves and sinews, as Challey bridged the Savine in Switzerland, and Telford the sea between Anglesea and England, with chain bridges. These are the great themes of human thought; not green grass, and flowers, and moonshine. Besides, the mere external forms of nature we make our own and carry with us into the city, by the power of memory. FROM LONGFELLOW.

XCVIII. THE BEAUTIFUL.

WALK with the Beautiful and with the Grand,
Let nothing on the earth thy feet deter;
Sorrow may lead thee weeping by the hand,
But give not all thy bosom thoughts to her;
Walk with the Beautiful.

I hear thee say,
"The Beautiful! what is it?"
O, thou art darkly ignorant! Be sure

'Tis no long weary road its form to visit,

For thou canst make it smile beside thy door;

Then love the Beautiful.

Ay, love it; 'tis a sister that will bless,

And teach thee patience when the heart is lonely;
The angels love it, for they wear its dress,

And thou art made a little lower only;

Then love the Beautiful.

Some boast its presence in a Grecian face;
Some, in a favorite warbler of the skies;
But be not fooled! whate'er thine eye may trace,
Seeking the Beautiful, it will arise;

Then seek it everywhere.

Thy bosom is its mint; the workmen are

Thy thoughts, and they must coin for thee: believing, The Beautiful exists in every star,

Thou mak'st it so; and art thyself deceiving,

If otherwise thy faith.

Dost thou see Beauty in the violet's cup?

I'll teach thee miracles! Walk on this heath,
And say to the neglected flower, "Look up,
And be thou beautiful!" If thou hast faith,
It will obey thy word.

One thing I warn thee. Bow no knee to gold.
Less innocent it makes the guileless tongue:

It turns the feelings prematurely old:

And they who keep their best affections young
Best love the Beautiful.

XCIX.-INVECTIVE AGAINST MR. FLOOD.

HENRY GRATTAN was a distinguished Irish barrister. He had been attacked in Parliament with great asperity by Mr. Flood, and replied as follows. It is an admirable specimen of invective, though, in its spirit, by no means worthy of imitation.

Ir is not the slander of an evil tongue that can defame me. I maintain my reputation in public and in private life. No man, who has not a bad character, can ever say that I deceived. No country can call me a cheat. But I will suppose such a public character. I will suppose such a man to have existence. I will begin with his character in his political cradle, and I will follow him to the last

stage of political dissolution. I will suppose him, in the first stage of his life, to have been intemperate; in the second, to have been corrupt; and in the last, seditious; that, after an envenomed attack on government, he took office, and became its supporter.

With regard to the liberties of America, which were inseparable from ours, I will suppose this gentleman to have been an enemy, decided and unreserved; that he voted against her liberty, and voted, moreover, for an address to send four thousand Irish troops to cut the throats of the Americans; that he called these butchers "armed negotiators," and stood with a metaphor in his mouth and a bribe in his pocket, a champion against the rights of America, of America, the only hope of Ireland, the only refuge of the liberties of mankind. Thus defective in every relationship, whether to constitution, commerce, or toleration, I will suppose this man to have added much private improbity to public crimes; that his probity was like his patriotism, and his honor on a level with his oath. He loves to deliver panegyrics on himself. I will interrupt him, and say:

Sir, you are much mistaken if you think that your talents have been as great as your life has been reprehensible. You began your parliamentary career with an acrimony and personality which could have been justified only by a supposition of virtue. After a rank and clamorous opposition, you became, on a sudden, silent. You were silent for seven years. You were silent on the greatest questions,

and you were silent for money!

You supported the unparalleled profusion and jobbing of Lord Harcourt's scandalous ministry. You, sir, who manufacture stage thunder against Mr. Eden for his antiAmerican principles; you, sir, whom it pleases to chant a hymn to the immortal Hampden; you, sir, approved of the tyranny exercised against America. You, sir, voted four thousand Irish troops to cut the throats of the Americans, fighting for their freedom, fighting for the great principle, liberty!

But you found at last, that the Court had bought, but would not trust you. Mortified at the discovery, you try

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