FALLEN? How fallen? States and empires fall;

O'er towers and rock-built walls, And perished nations, floods to tempests call With hollow sound along the sea of time:

The great man never falls.

He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime
They fall who give him not

The honor here that suits his future name
They die and are forgot.

'O Giant loud and blind! the great man's fame
Is his own shadow and not cast by thee
A shadow that shall grow

As down the heaven of time the sun descends, And on the world shall throw

His god-like image, till it sinks where blends Time's dim horizon with Eternity.

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE LORD.

Margaret Fuller Ossoli, her husband, the Maruis Ossoli, and their child, were drowned off

Fire Island, July 16, 1850, while returning from Europe in the ship Elizabeth. The ship was driven ashore in a storm, and broken up by the waves.

ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE, MARGARET FULLER

[July 16, 1850]

OVER his millions Death has lawful power,
But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none.
After a longer struggle, in a fight
Worthy of Italy, to youth restored,

Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge

Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach
Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all
Precious on earth to thee a child, a wife!
Proud as thou wert of her, America
Is prouder, showing to her sons how high
Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.
She would not leave behind her those she
loved;

Such solitary safety might become
Others; not her; not her who stood beside
The pallet of the wounded, when the worst
Of France and Perfidy assailed the walls
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,
Renowned for the strength of genius, Mar-
garet!

Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few,

And shortly none will hear my failing voice, But the same language with more full appeal Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song Whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains Worthy to sing of thee: the hour is come; Take we our seats and let the dirge begin. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Yankee Doodle had a craft,
A rather tidy clipper,

And he challenged, while they laughed,
The Britishers to whip her.
Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped,
And that on their own water;
Of all the lot she went ahead,
And they came nowhere arter.

O'er Panamà there was a scheme
Long talked of, to pursue a

Short route-which many thought a dream —
By Lake Nicaragua.

John Bull discussed the plan on foot,
With slow irresolution,

While Yankee Doodle went and put
It into execution.

A steamer of the Collins line,
A Yankee Doodle's notion,
Has also quickest cut the brine
Across the Atlantic Ocean.
And British Agents, no ways slow
Her merits to discover,

Have been and bought her- just to tow
The Cunard packets over.

Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,
But that again don't mention:
I guess that Colts' revolvers whack
Their very first invention.
By Yankee Doodle, too, you're beat
Downright in Agriculture,
With his machine for reaping wheat,
Chawed up as by a vulture.

You also fancied, in your pride,
Which truly is tarnation,

Them British locks of yourn defied
The rogues of all creation;

But Chubbs' and Bramah's Hobbs has picked,

And you must now be viewed all

As having been completely licked

By glorious Yankee Doodle.

DANIEL WEBSTER

[Died October 24, 1852]

WHEN life hath run its largest round
Of toil and triumph, joy and woe,
How brief a storied page is found
To compass all its outward show!

The world-tried sailor tires and droops;
His flag is rent, his keel forgot;
His farthest voyages seem but loops
That float from life's entangled knot.

But when within the narrow space

Some larger soul hath lived and wrought, Whose sight was open to embrace

The boundless realms of deed and thought,

When, stricken by the freezing blast, A nation's living pillars fall,

How rich the storied page, how vast, A word, a whisper, can recall!

No medal lifts its fretted face,

Nor speaking marble cheats your eye; Yet, while these pictured lines I trace, A living image passes by:

A roof beneath the mountain pines;
The cloisters of a hill-girt plain;
The front of life's embattled lines;
A mound beside the heaving main.

These are the scenes: a boy appears; Set life's round dial in the sun, Count the swift arc of seventy years, His frame is dust; his task is done.

Yet pause upon the noontide hour,

Ere the declining sun has laid His bleaching rays on manhood's power, And look upon the mighty shade.

No gloom that stately shape can hide,
No change uncrown his brow: behold!
Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed,
Earth has no double from its mould!

Ere from the fields by valor won
The battle-smoke had rolled away,
And bared the blood-red setting sun,
His eyes were opened on the day.

His land was but a shelving strip,
Black with the strife that made it free;
He lived to see its banners dip

Their fringes in the Western sea.

The boundless prairies learned his name, His words the mountain echoes knew; The Northern breezes swept his fame From icy lake to warm bayou.

In toil he lived; in peace he died;

When life's full cycle was complete, Put off his robes of power and pride,

And laid them at his Master's feet.

His rest is by the storm-swept waves

Whom life's wild tempests roughly tried, Whose heart was like the streaming caves Of ocean, throbbing at his side.

Death's cold white hand is like the snow
Laid softly on the furrowed hill,
It hides the broken seams below,

And leaves the summit brighter still.

In vain the envious tongue upbraids;
His name a nation's heart shall keep
Till morning's latest sunlight fades
On the blue tablet of the deep!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

In 1854 a survey was ordered of the Isthmus of Darien, and Lieutenant Isaac G. Strain was placed in charge of the work. His party was reduced to great extremities in crossing the isthmus, but bore their sufferings with a heroism seldom surpassed.

THE FLAG

AN INCIDENT OF STRAIN'S EXPEDITION

[1854]

I NEVER have got the bearings quite, Though I've followed the course for many

a year,

If he was crazy, clean outright,

Or only what you might say was "queer."

He was just a simple sailor man.

I mind it as well as yisterday, When we messed aboard of the old Cyane. Lord! how the time does slip away! That was five and thirty year ago,

And I never expect such times again,

For sailors was n't afraid to stow

Themselves on a Yankee vessel then. He was only a sort of bosun's mate,

But every inch of him taut and trim; Stars and anchors and togs of state

Tailors don't build for the like of him. He flew a no-account sort of name,

A reg'lar fo'castle "Jim" or "Jack," With a plain "McGinnis" abaft the same, Giner❜ly reefed to simple "Mack." Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer, Ballast or compass was n't right. Till he licked four Juicers one day, a fear Prevailed that he had n't larned to fight. But I reckon the Captain knowed his man, When he put the flag in his hand the day That we went ashore from the old Cyane, On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay.

Forty days in the wilderness

We toiled and suffered and starved with Strain,

Losing the number of many a mess

In the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main. All of us starved, and many died.

One laid down, in his dull despair; His stronger messmate went to his side We left them both in the jungle there. It was hard to part with shipmates so;

But standing by would have done no good. We heard them moaning all day, so slow We dragged along through the weary wood. McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all;

Not that he ever piped his eye

Or would n't have answered to the call
If they'd sounded it for "All hands to die."
I guess 't would have sounded for him before,
But the grit inside of him kept him strong,
Till we met relief on the river shore;
And we all broke down when it came along.