last lines traced by his hand, which he rose from his deathbed to write, attest his joy at that great act of emancipation by which England, at an expense of a hundred million dollars, had given freedom to eight hundred thousand slaves. "Nobly," he writes,—and these were the last words of your benefactor," nobly has the public treasure been employed." And these last words, speaking from the tomb, still sound in our ears. Such was La Fayette. At the tidings of his death there was mourning in two hemispheres, and the saying of Pericles was again fulfilled, for the whole earth was the sepulcher of the illustrious man.

"Not to those chambers where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation came a nobler guest;
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed
A purer spirit, or a fairer shade."

6. Judge him by what he did throughout a long life, and you must confess his greatness. Judge him by the principles of his life, and you must bend with reverence before him. In all history he stands alone. There is no one who has done so much for human freedom. In youth showing the firmness of age, and in age showing the ardor of youth; trampling upon the prejudices of birth, upon the seductions of power, upon the blandishments of wealth, setting aside the favor even of that people whom he loved so well; whether placed at the height of worldly ambition, or plunged in the vaults of a dungeon, always true to the same principle.

7. Great he was, indeed, not as an author, although he has written what we are all glad to read; not as an orator, although he has spoken often and well; not as a soldier, although always brave, and often working miracles of genius; not as a statesman, although versed in government and intuitively perceiving the relations of men and 'nations; - not on these accounts is he great; but he is great as one of the world's

benefactors, who possessed the largest measure of that greatest gift of God to man-the genius of beneficence. And great he is as an example, which, so long as history endures, shall teach all-the author, the orator, the soldier, the statesman, all alike to labor, and, if need be, to suffer, for human right. The fame of such a character, brightening with the advance of civilization, can find no limit except in earthly gratitude.

XXXIX. THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL.
FREDERICK S. COZZENS.

1. It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still, When the minute-men from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill;

Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the

fleet,

But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms

beat,

And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, "We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the

dead!"

2. "Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!"

The trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a

word,

But stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with

spade,

A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound was made; So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell ; We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "All's well!"

3. And here and there a twinkling port, reflected on the

deep,

In many a wavy shadow showed their sullen guns asleep. Sleep on, ye bloody hireling crew! In careless slumber lie! The trench is growing broad and deep, the breast-work broad and high.

No striplings we, but bear the arms that held the French in

check,

The drum that beat in Louisburg and thundered in Quebec!

4. See how the morn is breaking! the red is in the sky; The mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by ; The Lively's hull looms through the fog, and they our works have spied,

For the ruddy flash and round-shot part in thunder from her

side;

And the Falcon and the Cerberus make every bosom thrill, With gun and shell and drum and bell and boatswain's whistle shrill;

But deep and wider grows the trench as spade and mattock

ply,

For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing

nigh.

5. Up with the pine-tree banner! Our gallant Prescott

stands

Amid the plunging shell and shot, and plants it with his

hands;

Up with the shout, for Putnam comes upon his reeking bay, With bloody spur and foaming bit, in haste to join the fray; And Pomeroy, with his snow-white hairs, and face all flush

and sweat,

Unscathed by French and Indian, wears a youthful glory yet

6. Hark! from the town a trumpet! The barges at the wharf

Are crowded with the living freight, and now they're pushing

off;

With clash and glitter, trump and drum, in all its bright

array,

Behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er the bay!

And still and still the barges fill, and still across the deep, Like thunder-clouds along the sky, the hostile transports

sweep,

7. And now they're forming at the Point, and now the lines advance;

We see beneath the sultry sun their polished bayonets glance; We hear anear the throbbing drum, the bugle challenge

ring;

Quick bursts and loud the flashing cloud, and rolls from wing to wing;

But on the height our bulwark stands, tremendous in its

gloom,

As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as a tomb!

And so we waited till we saw, at scarce ten rifles' length, The old vindictive Saxon spite in all its stubborn strength; When sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged ramparts, burst

From every gun the livid light, upon the foe accursed!

8. Then quailed a monarch's might before a free-born people's ire;

Then drank the sword the veteran's life, where swept the yeoman's fire;

Then, staggered by the shot, we saw their serried columns

reel

And fall, as falls the bearded grain beneath the reaper's

steel!

And then arose a mighty shout, that might have waked the

dead,

"Hurrah! they run

is filed!"

-the field is won! Hurrah! the foe

And every man has dropped his gun to catch his neighbor's

hand,

As his heart kept praying all the time for home and native

land.

9. Thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice ten

thousand foes,

And thrice that day within our lines the shout of victory

rose;

And though our swift fire slackened then, and, reddening in

the skies,

We saw from Charlestown's roofs and walls the flaming columns rise,

Yet while we had a cartridge left, we still maintained the

fight,

Nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that bloodstained height.

10. What though for us no laurels bloom, and o'er the

nameless brave

No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch records a warrior's grave?

What though the day to us was lost? Upon the deathless

page

The everlasting charter stands, for every land and age!

For man hath broke his felon bonds and cast them in the

dust,

And claimed his heritage divine, and justified his trust;