state or neighborhood; when I refuse for any such cause, or for any cause, the homage due to American talent, to clevated patriotism, to sincere devotion to liberty and the country; or if I see an uncommon endowment of Heaven ́; if I see extraordinary capacity or virtue in any son of the South; and if, moved by local prejudice, or gangrened by state jealousy, I get up here to abate a tithe of a hair` from his just character and just fame', may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.

4. Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts. She needs none. There she is; behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her history; the world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure`. There is Boston`, and Concord`, and Lexington`, and Bunker-hill`; and there they will remain forever. And, sir, where American liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives, in the strength of its manhood, and full of its original spirit. If discord and disunion shall wound' it; if party strife and blind ambition shall hawk at and tear it; if folly and madness, if uneasiness under salutary restraint, shall succeed to separate it from that Union', by which alone its existence is made sure ́, it will stand, in the end, by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked`; it will stretch forth its arm with whatever of vigor it may still retain, over the friends who gathered around it; and it will fall at last, if fall it must, amid the proudest monuments of its glory, and on the very spot of its origin.

LXVI. THE LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM.
FROM ATHERSTONE.

HERCULANEUM and Pompeii were cities of Italy, which were destroyed by an eruption of Vesuvius, being entirely buried under ashes and lava. During the last century they have been dug out, to a considerable extent, and the streets, and buildings, and utensils have been found in a state of perfect preservation.

A Roman soldier, for some daring deed
That trespass'd on the laws, in dungeon low

Chain'd down. His was a noble spirit, rough,
But generous, and brave, and kind.

He had a son; it was a rosy boy,

A little faithful copy of his sire,

In face and gesture. From infancy, the child
Had been his father's solace and his care.

Every sport

The father shared and highten'd. But at length,
The rigorous law had grasp'd him, and condemn'd
To fetters and, to darkness.

The captive's lot,

He felt in all its bitterness: the walls

Of his deep dungeon answer'd many a sigh

And heart-heav'd groan. His tale was known, and touch'd His jailer with compassion; and the boy,

Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled

His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm
With his lov'd presence, that in every wound
Dropp'd healing. But, in this terrific hour,
He was a poison'd arrow in the breast
Where he had been a cure.

With earliest morn

Of that first day of darkness and amaze,
He came. The iron door was closed, - for them
Never to open more! The day, the night
Dragg'd slowly by`; nor did they know the fate
Impending o'er the city. Well they heard
The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath,
And felt its giddy rocking; and the air

Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw
The boy was sleeping: and the father hoped
The earthquake might pass by: nor would he wake
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell
The dangers of their state.

(1) On his low couch

The fetter'd soldier sank, and with deep awe,
Listen'd the fearful sounds: with upturn'd eye,
To the great gōds he breath'd a prayer; then, strove
To calm himself, and lose in sleep awhile

His useless terrors. But he could not sleep:
His body burn'd with feverish heat; his chains
Clank'd loud, although he moved not; deep in earth

Groan'd unimaginable thunders; sounds,
Fearful and ominous, arose and died`,

Like the sad mōanings of November's wind,

In the blank midnight. (W) Dēēpest hōrror chill'd
His blood that burn'd befōre; cold, clammy sweats

Came o'er him; then anon, a fiery thrill

Shot through his veins. Now, at his couch he shrunk,
And shiver'd as in fear; now, upright leap'd,

As though he heard the battle trumpet sound,
And long'd to cope with death.

He slept, at last,

A troubled, dreamy sleep.
Never to waken more!

But terrible his agony.

Soon the storm

Well had he slept

His hours are few,

Burst forth; the lightenings glanced; the air

Shook with the thunders. They awoke; they sprung,
Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed

A moment as in sunshine - and was dark:
Again, a flood of white flame fills the cell,
Dying away upon the dazzled eye

In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound`
Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear.

With intensest awe,

The soldier's frame was fill'd; and many a thought
Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind,
As underneath he felt the fever'd earth

Jarring and lifting; and the massive walls,

Heard harshly grate and strain`: yet knew he not,

While evils undefined and yet to come

Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound
Fate had already given. - Where, man of woe!
Where, wretched father! is thy boy? Thou call'st

His name in vain:- he can not answer thee.

9. Loudly the father call'd upon his child:

No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously

He search'd their couch of straw; with headlong haste
Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent,
Groped darkling on the earth :-nō child was there.
(h) Again he call'd: again, at farthest stretch
Of his accurs-ed fetters, till the blood

Seem'd bursting from his ears, and from his eyes

10.

Fire flash'd, he strain'd with arm extended far,
And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch
Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil!
Yet still renew'd: still round and round he goes,
And strains, and snatches, and with dreadful cries
Calls on his boy.

(hh) Mad frenzy fires him now.

He plants against the wall his feet; his chain
Grasps; tugs with giant strength to force away
The deep-driven staple; yells and shrieks with rage:
And, like a desert lion in the snare,

Raging to break his toils,-to and fro bounds.
(1) But see! the ground is opening;-a blue light
Mounts, gently waving,-noiseless;-thin and cold
It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flăme;
But by its luster, on the earth outstretch'd,
Behold the lifeless child! his dress is singed,
And, o'er his face serene, a darken'd line

11.

12.

Points out the lightning's track.

(1) The father saw,

And all his fury fled :-a dead calm fell

That instant on` him :-speechless-fix'd--he stood`;
And with a look that never wander'd', gazed

Intensely on the corse. Those laughing eyes

Were not yet closed`,—and round those ruby lips
The wonted smile return'd`.

Silent and pale

The father stands :-no tear is in his eye":-
The thunders bellow;-but he hears them not:-
The ground lifts like a sea; he knows it not":-
The strong walls grind and gape`:—the vaulted roof
Takes shape like bubble tossing in the wind;
See! he looks up and smiles`;-for death to him
Is happiness. Yet could one last embrace

Be given, 't were still a sweeter thing to die.

13. It will be given. (h) Look! how the rolling ground At every swell, nearer and still more near

Moves toward the father's outstretch'd arm his boy:
Once he has touch'd his garment`:-how his eye
Lightens with love, and hope, and anxious fears!
Ha! see! he has him now!-he clasps him round;
Kisses his face; puts back the curling locks,

That shaded his fine brow; looks in his eyes;
Grasps in his own those little dimpled hands;
(1) Then folds him to his breast, as he was wont
To lie when sleeping; and resigned, awaits
Undreaded death.

14. (1) And death came sōōn and swift,

And pangless. The huge pīle sānk down at once
Into the opening earth. Walls-arches ́—roof`—
And deep foundation stones-all-mingling—fell`!

ALTERED FROM SHAKSPEARE.

SCENE I.-Camp before Florence.

Enter COUNT ROSENCRANTZ, the captain of horse in the Duke of Florence's army, and CAPT. DUMAIN and his brother, two officers under the Count.

1st Capt. Dumain. Nay, good, my lord, try him. If your lordship find him not a knave, take me henceforth for a fool. 2d Capt. Dumain. On my life, my lord', he is a mere bubble.

Count Rosencrantz. Do you think I am so far deceived in him?

1st. Capt. D. Believe it, my lord. To my certain knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him as gently as if he were my kinsman, he's a notorious coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, and the owner of no one good quality worthy your lordship's respect.

2d Capt D. It is important that you should understand him, lest, reposing too far in a virtue, which he hath not, he might, on some important occasion, in some pressing danger,

fail

you.

Count R. I would I knew in what particular action to try him.

2d Capt. D. None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which you heard him so confidently undertake to do.

1st Capt. D. I', with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly surprise him. I will have men whom, I am sure, he knows