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BLANCHE Thanks to God!
Oh! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child ! -
Oh! swiftly now,
As yet I know not. - Each low throbbing pulse
BLANCHE (kneeling before him.) My father! lay thy hand On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness, 15 Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul, Ere we are called.
D'AUBIGNE'. If I may speak through tears !Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart ! — thou who dost look on me 20 With thy lost mother's angel-eyes of love !
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,
There springing up, - with soft light round thee shed, 25 For immortality! -- Meek child of God!
I bless thee — He will bless thee! — In His love
As thou hast lived, - my duteous, holy Blanche!
Now is there strength
Thy will be done!” 35 D'AUBIGNE' (pointing upwards.) Seest thou, my child,
Yon faint light in the west ? The signal-star
Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in
In its dark hour once more ! — And we will sleep 0 Yes, calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.
(They sing together.)
[The following extract is the concluding portion of a speech delivered by Ur. Everett, October 27, 1852, in Faneuil Hall, Boston, at a meeting of the cit. izens of Boston, assembled in consequence of the death of Mr. Webster, which had taken place on the 24th.]
Among the many memorable words which fell from the lips of our friend just before they were closed forever, the most remarkable are those which have been quoted by a
previous speaker, I STILL LIVE.” They attest the se5 rene composure of his niind; the Christian heroism with which he was able to turn his consciousness in
himself, and explore, step by step, the dark passage (dark to us, but to him, we trust, already lighted from above),
which connects this world with the world to come. But I 10 know not what words could have been better chosen to
express his relation to the world he was leaving - I still live.” This poor dust is just returning to the dust from which it was taken, but I feel that I live in the affections
of the people to whose services I have consecrated my 15 days. “I still live.” The icy hand of death is already
laid on my heart, but I shall still live in those words of counsel which I have uttered to my fellow-citizens, and which I now leave them as the last bequest of a dying
friend. 5 In the long and honored career of our lamented friend,
there are efforts and triumphs which will hereafter fill one of the brightest pages of our history. But I greatly err if the closing scene the height of the religious sublime
- does not, in the judgment of other days, far transcend 10 in interest the brightest exploits of public life. Within
that darkened chamber at Marshfield was witnessed a scene of which we shall not readily find the parallel. The serenity with which he stood in the presence of the King
of Terrors, without trepidation or flutter, for hours and 15 days of expectation : the thoughtfulness for the public busi
ness, when the sands were so nearly run out; the hospitable care for the reception of the friends who came to Marshfield ; that affectionate and solemn leave separately taken,
name by name, of wife and children and kindred and 20 friends and family, down to the humblest members of the
household; the designation of the coming day, then near at hand, when “all that was mortal of Daniel Webster should cease to exist!” the dimly-recollected strains of
the funeral poetry of Gray; the last faint flash of the 25 soaring intellect; the feebly-murmured words of Holy Writ
repeated from the lips of the good physician, who, when all the resources of human art had been exhausted, had a drop of spiritual balm for the parting soul; the clasped
hands; the dying prayers. Oh! my fellow-citizens, this 30 is a consummation over which tears of pious sympathy
will be shed ages after the glories of the forum and the senate are forgotten.
“His sufferings ended with the day,
Yet lived he at its close;
In statue-like repose..
" But ere the Sun, in all his state,
Illamed the Eastern skies,
And walked in Paradise.”
CXVIII. - HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNI, SWITZERLAND.
COLERIDGE. [SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE was born at Ottery St. Mary, in Devonshire, England, October 21, 1772, and died July 25, 1834. He was one of the most remarkable men of his time; and few writers have exerted a wider and deeper intellectual influence. His influence, too, is most felt by minds of the highest class. He was an original and imaginative poet, a profound and suggestive philosophical writer, and a critic of unrivalled excellence. His works are somewhat fragmentary in their character, for he wanted patience in intellectual construction, but they are the fragments of a noble edifice. In conversational eloquence he is said to have excelled all his contemporaries.
Coleridge's life was not in all respects what the admirers of his genius could have wished. His great defect was a want of will. He could see the right, but not always go to it; he could see the wrong, but not always go from it.]
1 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause
2 O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
3 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet we know not we are listening to it, –
4 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
5 Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale!
0, struggling with the darkness all the night,
6 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! Who called
you forth from night and utter death,