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a personal foe, without a tear, and insult, with impotent revenge, the pale unconscious piece of earth that lies low before him.

It is grateful to know, that the American people are not capable of this unnatural malignity. It is delightful to see, that the great stroke of Providence, which has bereft the nation of its Chief Magistrate, is felt as a national wound, lamented as a common calamity. It does relieve, somewhat, the fears of the friends of Democratic Liberty, to witness the spontaneous and full utterance of a common grief, on this occasion, by parties so lately irritated to frenzy by an acrimonious political contest. Dejected Patriotism will lift up her head again, and reassure herself, by these cheerful omens, that the public heart is still true, and that, in our fond estimation, it is something more to be an American than to be of any party, something higher and better to be a MAN than to be of any nation or tribe under heaven.

When one of the lowliest of men dies, there is a serious vacancy produced. The wound is deep, and long felt. The world is not interested in the change; yet, how great the change is. The condition of a human family, the circle, within which occur most of the events that give happiness or misery to life, is forever and essentially altered. New relations are instituted; new dependencies are thenceforth to be felt; new responsibilities to arise; new forms of character to be assumed. Long cherished affections are ruptured; accustomed pursuits are laid aside; settled purposes are broken off. To a whole household, life has become another thing; the world is to be viewed by them in a new light, and lived in with new feelings. The loss is sensible; and it is irreparable. Friendship may administer its sympathies to the desolate bosom; and they are sweet to the mourning heart. Providence may be gracious still; our fields may smile, and our enterprises may prosper. But for violated love there is no reparation. The dead will return no more; his place is not to be supplied. The vic

tories of Death are permanent; its monuments never decay, or moulder.

Even when a great man dies, the most poignant grief is not public. The bitterest sighs are heaved, and the most scalding tears are shed in private. Even now, while a nation is clad in mourning for the hero and the statesman, and the parade and circumstance of public sorrow present an imposing and engrossing spectacle to all eyes, there is a mansion on the banks of the Ohio, where the names of General and President are not mentioned. The sorrows, that darken that house, are the sorrows which bereaved woman always feels; the tears, that are shed there, are such as crushed affection every where sheds. It is nothing to her, who sits a widow, in that vacant home, that the warrior and the politician is called from the scene of his triumphs. It is little to her, that a new Government is deprived of its head, a great people of a favorite Ruler. Her lamentation is for the husband of her youth and the father of her children. It is the bitterness of her cup, that the vacant place at her table, and at her fireside, and on her couch of rest, will never, never more be filled; that henceforth her way is to be solitary, and her heart lonely. To her life is ended before the time.

Such is Death always. But when one of the gifted is taken away, it is a public calamity. A great man belongs to his people. He is a public possession - part of a nation's capital, strength, and honor. A comprehensive intellect, a beautiful imagination, superior activity and energy, sublime principle, in which the heart of a nation may trust, magnanimity and enterprise capable of inspiring and sustaining popular enthusiasm, mind to dignify, adorn, and perpetuate what has a people so precious, so sacred? What should a community so prize and cherish?

In whatever department of honorable industry such mind discovers itself, it is above all price. Be it in Philosophy, secluding itself and wearying the hours in the study of truth; or in Art, disciplining itself, and raising itself up,

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in the fond hope of realizing in marble, or on canvass, or in the more enduring forms of language, the features of beauty, which it has dimly conceived in its favored moments; or, be it in Eloquence, or Policy, or action wherever more than ordinary intellect, or taste, or goodness, shows itself, there is some part of a nation's greatness; there, one of the gems of its future crown. Without such mind it may possibly exist, may vegetate upon the earth; but the frosts of the first winter will scorch every green thing, and the winds will blow it away. Nothing of all a people's treasures is imperishable but its great minds. Nothing but the genius and virtue of its noble sons can bind it to the family of illustrious nations, or link its history to the series of renowned ages. And when the men, to whom it owes its place and its hopes, are removed by death, it is proper to mourn. The tears of a whole people are a fit tribute to departed greatness. The treasure was public; the loss is public, too. And in proportion as it is great, it is also irreparable. A great man may make an age, may be himself the age.

ORDINATION HYMN.

BY GEORGE KENT.

Or old, O Lord, by cliff or stream,
In glen or mount thy name was praised;
Creation's works the primal theme

Of shepherds, as to heaven they gazed.

A nobler song 't was their's to raise,
From Judah's plains and Bethlehem's hills;
The star prophetic meets their gaze,
The angelic shout their chorus fills.

"Jesus the son of God is born!"

A Saviour lives to rule and bless,
To cheer the fainting and forlorn,
And lead in paths of righteousness.

That Christ is ours-his word our guide,
His bright example be our aim ;
The life he lived, the death he died,
Circle with grace the christian name.

Not ours our Heavenly Father's will
Dimly to read in nature's frame;
Nor ours to worship on the hill,
Or in the vale, by cliff or stream.

The word Divine to us is given,
To us a Messenger is sent;
This day records in sight of heaven,
The holy ties we here cement.

Teach us in mutual love to live,

In holy faith and heavenly joy;

Help us, O God, at once to give
Our willing minds to thine employ.

Aid us at last - our duty done,

Our hopes all bright-our souls serene; Calmly to meet life's setting sun,

And triumph in life's closing scene.

RATHER HYPERBOLICAL.

BY HORATIO HALE.

THEY tell me, love, that heavenly form
Was fashioned in an earthly mould;
That once each limb and feature warm
Was lifeless clay and cold.

And the old nurse, in prating mood,
Vows she beheld thy baby-hood.
But vain the specious web and frail,
My heart can weave a truer tale.

They lured a radiant angel down,

And clipped its glorious wings away;
They bound its form in stays and gown,
And taught it here to stay.

But earth, nor art could e'er efface
Its angel form, its heavenly grace.

And would'st thou deign to linger here,
And tread with me this mortal earth,
A group of charming cherubs, dear,
Might cheer our humble hearth.

And each would be-nay, do not laugh,-
Angel and mortal, half and half,
And every pretty dear, when vexed,
Would cry one hour, and sing the next.

But oh! I greatly fear, my love,
That earthly joys would all be vain,
That longing much for things above,
The plumes would grow again;
And so you might, some pleasant day,
Take to your wings and flee away;
I shall be sorry, if you do,

But, dearest-take the children too!