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Oh, spare ye w
their tender age,
And sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest. 4. From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies,
Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes;
Lo! dear Eliza, weltering in her blood !
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds :
FUNERAL ORATION-DEATH OF CLAY.
REV. DR. BUTLER
1. BEFORE all hearts and minds in this august asset.blage, the vivid image of ONE MAN stands. To some aged eye, he may come forth, from the dim past, as he appeared in the neighboring city of his native state, a lithe and ardent youth, full of promise, of ambition, and of hope. To another, he may appear as, in a distant state, in the courts of justice, erect, highstrung, bold, wearing fresh forensic laurels on his young and
2. Some may see him in the earlier and some in the later stages of his career on this auspicious theater of his renown; and to the former he will start out, on the background of the past, as he appeared in the neighboring chamber, tall, elate, impassioned, with flashing eye, and suasive gesture, and clarion voice, an already acknowledged “ Agamemnon, King of Men;" and to others, he will again stand in this chamber “ the strong staff” of the bewildered and staggering state, and “ the beautiful rod,” rich with the blossoms of genius, and of patriotic love and hope, the life of youth still remaining to give animation, grace, and exhaustless vigor, to the wisdom, the experience, and gravity of age.
3. To others he may be present as he sat in the chamber of sickness, cheerful, majestic, gentle - his mind clear, his heart warm, his hope fixed on heaven, peacefully preparing for his last great change. To the memory of the minister of God, he appears as the penitent, humble, and peaceful christian, who received him with the affection of a father, and joined with hiin in solemn sacrament and prayer with the gentleness of a woman and humility of a child. “ Out of the strong came forth sweetness “ How is the strong staff broken and the beauti. ful rod!”
4. But not before this assembly only does the venerable image of the departed statesman this day distinctly stand. For more than a thousand miles—east, west, north, and south-it is known and remembered, that at this place and hour a nation's representatives assemble to do honor to him whose fame is now a nation's heritage. A vation's mighty heart throbs against this capitol, and beats through you. In many cities, banners droop, bells toll, cannons boom, funeral draperies
5. In crowded streets and on surrounding wharves, upon steamboats, and upon cars, in fields, in workshops, in homes, in schools, millions of men, women, and children, have their thoughts fixed upon this scene, and say mournfully to each
“This is the hour in which, at the capital, the nation's representatives are burying Henry Clay.” Burying Henry Clay? Bury the record of your country's history—bury the hearts of living millions—bury the mountains, the rivers, the lakes, and the spreading lands from sea to sea, with which his name is inseparably associated, and even then you would not bury Henry Clay-for he is in other lands and speaks in other tongues, and to other times, than ours.
6. A great mind, a great heart, a great orator, a great career, have been consigned to history. She will record his rare gifts of deep insight, keen discrimination, clear statement, rapid combination, plain, direct, and convincing logic. She will love to dwell on that large, generous, magnanimous, open, forgiving heart. She will linger with fond delight on the recorded or traditional stories of an eloquence that was so masterful and stirring, because it was but himself struggling to come forth on the living words—because, though the words were brave and strong, and beautiful, and melodious, it was felt that, behind them, there was a soul, braver, stronger, more beautiful, and more melodious than language could express.
7. She will point to a career of statesmanship which has, to
a remarkable degree, stamped itself on the public policy of the country, and reached in benificent practical results the fields, the looms, the commercial marts, and the quiet homes of all the land, where his name was with the departed father, and is with the living children, and will be with successive generations, the honored household word.
THE GRAVE-TWO VOICES.
Where they tear up the earth with their fangs.
Second Voice. 6. There the rabbit at evening disports with his love, Or rests on the sod—while the turtles above, Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.
First Voice. 7. There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath And loathsome decay, fill the dwelling of death,
And trees are all barren and bare!
Second Voice. 8. Oh, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, With lilies and jessamine fair.
First Voice, 9. The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears, He is launched on the wreck-covered river !
Second Voice. 10. The traveler, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,
And sweetly reposes forever !
A VOICE FOR WAR.
My voice is still for war.