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So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew

loud

арасе,

The water-wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of Heaven, each face
Grew dark, as they were speaking.

And still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armëd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

The boat has left the stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amid the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade
His child he did discover:

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried, in grief,

"Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!-Oh! my daughter!"

'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing :

The waters wild closed o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

[merged small][merged small][graphic]

The following is part of the Exordium of the Address of DANIEL WEBSTER at the completion of the Monument, June, 17, 1843. The Orator addressed the audience from a stage facing the obelisk, and between which and himself were at least fifty thousand anxious listeners from every state in the union. Happy the orator selected for this high offering of patriotism! Wonderful the talent that proved equal to the occasion! Fortunate the man, who, like the Editor, was permitted to see, to hear, and to feel what he may never expect to witness again. The engraving at the head of the lesson faintly represents the scene when the Orator uttered the words, THERE IT STANDS!

A duty has been performed. A work of gratitude and patriotism is completed. This structure, having its foundations in soil which drank deep of early revolutionary blood, has at length reached its destined height, and now lifts its summit to the skies.

The BUNKER HILL MONUMENT is finished. There it stands. Fortunate in the natural eminence on which it is placed-higher, infinitely higher, in its objects and

purpose, it rises over the land, and over the sea; and, visible, at their homes, to three hundred thousand citizens of Massachusetts, it stands a memorial of the last, and a monitor to the present and all succeeding generations. I have spoken of the loftiness of its purpose. If it had been without any other design than the creation of a work of art, the granite, of which it is composed, would have slept in its native bed. It has a purpose; and that purpose gives it its character. That purpose enrobes it with dignity and moral grandeur. That well known purpose it is, which causes us to look up to it with a feeling of awe.

In the older world, numerous fabrics still exist, reared by human hands, but whose object has been lost in the darkness of ages. They are now monuments of nothing but the labor and skill which constructed them. The mighty pyramid itself, half buried in the sands of Africa, has nothing to bring down and report to us, but the power of kings and the servitude of the people. If it had any purpose beyond that of a mausole'um, such purpose has perished from history, and from tradition. If asked for its moral object, its admonition, its sentiment, its instruction to mankind, or any high end in its erection, it is silent-silent as the millions which lie in the dust at its base, and in the catacombs which surround it. Without a just moral object, therefore, made known to man, though raised against the skies, it excites only conviction of power, mixed with strange wonder. But if the civilization of the present race of men, founded as it is in solid science, the true knowledge of nature, and vast discoveries in art, and which is stimulated and purified by moral sentiment, and by the truths of Christianity, be not destined to destruction, before the final termination of human existence on earth, the object and purpose of this edifice will be known till that hour shall come.

It is itself the orator of this occasion. It is not from my lips, it is not from any human lips, that that strain of

eloquence is this day to flow, most competent to move and excite the vast multitudes around it. The real speaker stands motionless before us. It is a plain shaft. It bears no inscriptions, fronting to the rising sun, from which the future antiquarian shall wipe the dust. Nor does the rising sun cause tones of music to issue from its summit. But at the rising of the sun, and at the setting of the sun; in the blaze of noon-day, and beneath the milder effulgence of lunar light, it looks, it speaks, it acts, to the full comprehension of every American mind, and the awakening of glowing enthusiasm in every American heart. To-day, it speaks to us. Its future auditories will be the successive generations of men, as they rise up before it, and gather round it. Its speech will be of patriotism and courage; of civil and religious liberty; of free government; of the moral improvement and elevation of mankind; and of the immortal memory of those who with heroic devotion have sacrificed their lives for their country.

LESSON CIV.

SEVENTY SIX.

The following just tribute to the patriotic spirit of the heroes of the Revolution, is from the pen of BRYANT.

What heroes from the woodland sprung,
When through the fresh awakened land

The thrilling cry of freedom rung,
And to the work of warfare strung

The yeoman's iron hand!

Hills flung the cry to hills around,

And ocean,--mart replied to mart,

And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,
Pealed far away the startling sound

Into the forest's heart.

Then marched the brave from rocky steep,
From mountain river swift and cold;
The borders of the stormy deep,

The vales where gathered water's sleep,
Sent up the strong and bold,

As if the very earth again

Grew quick with God's creating breath:
And, from the sods of grove and glen,
Rose ranks of lion hearted men,

To battle to the death.

Already had the strife begun;
Already blood on Concord's plain
Along the springing grass had run,
And blood had flowed at Lexington,
Like brooks of April rain.

That death stain on the vernal sward
Hallowed to freedom all the shore;
In fragments fell the yoke abhorred-
The footstep of a foreign lord
Profaned the soil no more.

LESSON CV.

DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

The young princess, whose sudden death is the subject of the following lines by LORD BYRON, was the only daughter of George IV., and heiress to the throne of England. She was the wife of Leopold, now king of Belgium, and when she and her infant son were so unex pectedly removed, the hope of the British nation seemed for a time to be utterly lost.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?

* Alive.

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