Be it so. If it be the pleasure of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a FREE country.

7. But whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured that this declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual return, they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears; not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of *exultation, of gratitude, and of joy.

8. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judgment approves the measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it; and I leave off as I began, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the declaration. It is my living sentiment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall be my dying sentiment; independence now, and

INDEPENDENCE FOREVER.

CLXI. - THE PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS.
FROM WALTER SCOTT.

IN the poem, from which this extract is taken, Marmion is represented as an embassador, sent by Henry VIII, king of England, to James IV, king of Scotland, who were at war with each other. Having finished his mission to James, Marmion was intrusted to the protection and hospitality of Douglas, one of the Scottish nobles. Douglas entertains him, treats him with the respect due to his office and to the honor of his sovereign, yet he despises his private character. Marmion perceives this, and takes +umbrage at it, though he attempts to repress his resentment, and desires to part in peace. Under these circumstances, the scene, as described in this sketch, takes place. Tantallon is the name of Douglas' castle.

1. Nor far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop tarray,
To Surrey's camp to ride;

He had safe conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,

And Douglas gave a guide.

2. The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu : "Though something I might 'plain," he said, "Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by the king's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I staid, Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand.” But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:

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My manors, halls, and towers shall still
Be open at my sovereign's will,

To each one whom he +lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.

My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to +foundation stone;
The hand of Douglas is his own;

And never shall, in friendly grasp,
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

3. Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for tire;

And "This to me," he said,

"And 't were not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And first, I tell thee, haughty peer,
He who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
And Douglas, more, I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here, in thy hold, thy +vassals near,
I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
And if thou said'st I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou-hast―lied!"

4. On the Earl's cheek, the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age:

Fierce he broke forth; "And dar'st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

And hop'st thou thence tunscathed to go?
No, by St. Bryde of Bothwell, no!

Up drawbridge, grooms,—what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."

Lord Marmion turn'd,-well was his need,-
And dash'd the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the arch-way sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, grazed his plume.

5. The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise:
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim;
And when lord Marmion reach'd his band
He halts and turns with clinch-ed hand,
And shout of loud +defiance pours,

And shook his gauntlet at the towers.

"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"

But soon he rein'd his fury's pace:

1. THE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal; every other affliction, to forget; but this wound, we consider it a duty to keep open. This affliction we cherish, and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother, who would willingly

forget the infant that has perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget a tender parent, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of *agony, would forget the friend, over whom he mourns?

2. No, the love which survives the tomb, is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection; when the sudden anguish, and the *convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was, in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may, sometimes, throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet, who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn, even from the charms of the living.

3. Oh, the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom, spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave, even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies *moldering before him? But the grave of those we loved, what a place for meditation!" There it is, that we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded, in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is, that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities! the last testimonies of expiring love! the feeble, fluttering, thrilling,-oh, how thrilling!-pressure of the hand! the last fond look of the glazing eye turning upon us, even from the threshold of existence! the faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection!

4. Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience, for every past

benefit unrequited; every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never-never-never return to be soothed by thy contrition! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou hast given one unmerited pang to that true heart, which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure, that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure, that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the tunavailing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.

5. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile +tributes of regret; but take warning, by the bitterness of this, thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth, be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.

1. THOU hast been where the rocks of coral grow,
Thou hast fought with teddying waves;
Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low,
Thou searcher of ocean's caves!

2. Thou hast look'd on the gleaming wealth of old,
And wrecks where the brave have +striven;
The deep is a strong and fearful hold,

But thou its bar hath riven !

3. A wild and weary life is thine,

A wasting task and lone;

Though treasure-grots for thee may shine,
To all besides unknown.