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, Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, 'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, Melt, and dispel, ye specter-doubts, that roll FROM CAMPBELL. CL. THE THREE HOMES. "WHERE is thy home?" I asked a child, Was twining flowers most sweet and wild "My home," the happy heart replied, When every word is joy and truth, "Where is thy home?" I asked of one To hear a warrior's tender tone The home of her young spirit meek Ah! souls that well might soar above And build their hopes on human love, NEW EC. S.-23 "Where is thy home, thou lonely man?" Who came with furrowed brow, and wan, 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 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 |