"Wasted, and haggard, and old; Old, and haggard, and thin; Wasted and haggard with suffering untold; Old and haggard with sin. Steeped in crime to the lips; With sorrow and anguish gray. Toll, mad winds toll, a human soul "Hark to the old church-bell That swings in the church-tower gray; Away from carking care, Away from strife and sin; Come, come away, 'tis his own day,— e pass the church-yard wall, Mother, Effie, and I, And the green grass waves o'er lowly graves, "Hark! that is his step, I know; Ah! white, cold moon, you are like the snow, His kisses are not for you; I pity you so, with your heart of snow, "Where am I? Oh, God! it is past, The dream of guileless years; - Howl, fiends of night, on the whirling blast, I will not fear to die, Though all beyond is gloom! Toll! mad winds, toll! for my lost soul Is passing unto doom." Wasted, and haggard, and old; Old, and haggard, and thin; She's sleeping to-night 'neath the church-yard mould, Crushed 'neath a weight of sin. Not hers the deadly guilt; Hers only the love and shame,- Alone in the black midnight, Haunted by goblin and ghoul; The mad winds tolled, death's billows rolled LAST HOURS OF WEBSTER. Extract from a speech delivered by Edward Everett, October 27th, 1852 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 serene composure of his mind,-the christian heroism with which he was able to turn his consciousness in upon 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 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 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. 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 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 days of expectation; the thoughtfulness for the public business when the sands of life 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 chil dren, and kindred, and 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 soaring intellect; the feeblymurmured 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 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, And breathed the long, long night away, "But ere the sun, in all his state, Illumed the eastern skies, He passed through glory's morning gate, HEATHEN CHINEE:-OR, PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM From the "Overland Monthly." Which I wish to remark,- And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name; And I shall not deny In regard to the same 24 What that name might imply, But his smile it was pensive and child-like, It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William Which we had a small game, But he smiled as he sat by the table, With a smile that was child-like and bland. Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive. But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made Were quite frightful to see, Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor," In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand, But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In his sleeves, which were long, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, Who serves, to-day upon the list The weak is strong to-day; And sleekest broad-cloth counts no more To-day let pomp and vain pretense I set a plain man's common sense While there's a grief to seek redress, Where weighs our living manhood less While there's a right to need my vote, Up! clouted knee and ragged coat, John G. Whittier. |