Transported I beheld the fair,

And sighing cried, How came I here?
In heaven, amongst th' immortal blest,
Here let me fix and ever rest.

- Translation of R. Molesworth.

HIS ONLY DESIRE IS AGAIN TO BE WITH HER

Passato è'l tempo omai, lasso! che tanto

АH! gone forever are the happy years

That soothed my soul amid Love's fiercest fire,
And she for whom I wept and tuned my lyre
Has gone, alas! — But left my lyre, my tears:
Gone is that face, whose holy look endears;
But in my heart, ere yet it did retire,

Left the sweet radiance of its eyes, entire; -
My heart? Ah, no! not mine! for to the spheres
Of light she bore it captive, soaring high,
In angel robe triumphant, and now stands
Crown'd with the laurel wreath of chastity:
Oh! could I throw aside these earthly bands
That tie me down where wretched mortals sigh
To join blest spirits in celestial lands!

-Translation of Dr. Morehead.

SONNET FOUND IN LAURA'S TOMB

Qui reposan quei caste e felice ossa

HERE now repose those chaste, those blest remains Of that most gentle spirit, sole in earth!

Harsh monumental stone, that here confinest
True honor, fame, and beauty, all o'erthrown!
Death has destroy'd that Laurel green, and torn
Its tender roots; and all the noble meed
Of my long warfare, passing (if aright
My melancholy reckoning holds) four lusters.
O happy plant! Avignon's favor'd soil

Has seen thee spring and die; and here with thee

Thy poet's pen, and muse, and genius lies.
O lovely, beauteous limbs! O vivid fire,

That even in death hast power to melt the soul!
Heaven be thy portion, peace with God on high!
- Translation of Lord Woodhouselee.

(From "THE TRIUMPH OF Death”)

THE spirit parting from that beauteous breast,
In its meek virtues wrapt, and best prepared,
Had with serenity the heavens imprest:
No power of darkness, with ill influence, dared
Within a space so holy to intrude,

Till Death his terrible triumph had declared
Then hush'd was all lament, all fear subdued:
Each on those beauteous features gazed intent,
And from despair was arm'd with fortitude.
As a pure flame that not by force is spent,
But faint and fainter softly dies away,
Pass'd gently forth in peace the soul content;
And as a light of clear and steady ray,

When fails the source from which its brightness flows,
She to the last held on her wonted way.

Pale, was she? no, but white as shrouding snows,

That, when the winds are lull'd, fall silently,

She seem'd as one o'erwearied to repose.

E'en as in balmy slumbers lapt to lie
(The spirit parted from the form below),

In her appear'd what th' unwise term to die;

And Death sate beauteous on her beauteous brow.

- Translation of Lady Dacre.

WENDELL PHILLIPS

WENDELL PHILLIPS. One of the foremost of the anti-slavery agitators, and one of the most eminent of American orators. Born in Boston, November 29, 1811; died there, February 2, 1884. His works comprise: "The Constitution a Pro-Slavery Compact," ""Can Abolitionists Vote or Take Office?" "Review of Spooner's 'Constitutionality of Slavery,'" "Review of Webster's Speech of March 7th," "Review of Kossuth's Course," "Defense of the Anti-Slavery Movement," "Addresses," 1859; "Speeches, Lectures, and Letters," 1863.

(From "TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE")

At this moment, then, the island stands thus: The Spaniard is on the east triumphant; the Englishman is on the northwest intrenched; the mulattoes are in the mountains waiting; the blacks are in the valleys victorious; one-half the French slaveholding element is republican, the other half royalist; the white race against the mulatto and the black; the black against both; the Frenchman against the English and Spaniard; the Spaniard against both. It is a war of races and a war of nations. At such a moment Toussaint l'Ouverture appeared.

He had been born a slave on a plantation in the north of the island, an unmixed negro, his father stolen from Africa. If anything, therefore, that I say of him to-night moves your admiration, remember, the black race claims it all, — we have no part nor lot in it. He was fifty years old at this time. An old negro had taught him to read. His favorite books were Epictetus, Raynal, Military Memoirs, Plutarch. In the woods, he learned some of the qualities of herbs, and was village doctor. On the estate, the highest place he ever reached was that of coachman. At fifty, he joined the army as physician. Before he went, he placed his master and mistress on shipboard, freighted the vessel with a cargo of sugar and coffee, and sent them to Baltimore, and never afterward did he forget to send them, year by year, ample means of support And I might add, that, of all the leading negro generals, each one saved the man under whose roof he was born, and protected the family.

Let me add another thing. If I stood here to-night to tell

the story of Napoleon, I should take it from the lips of Frenchmen, who find no language rich enough to paint the great captain of the nineteenth century. Were I here to tell you the story of Washington, I should take it from your hearts — you, who think no marble white enough on which to carve the name of the Father of his Country. I am about to tell you the story of a negro who has left hardly one written line. I am to glean it from the reluctant testimony of Britons, Frenchmen, Spaniards, men who despised him as a negro and a slave, and hated him because he had beaten them in many a battle. All the materials for his biography are from the lips of his enemies. The second story told of him is this. About the time he reached the camp, the army had been subjected to two insults. First, their commissioners, summoned to meet the French Committee, were ignominiously and insultingly dismissed; and when, afterward, François, their general, was summoned to a second conference, and went to it on horseback, accompanied by two officers, a young lieutenant, who had known him as a slave, angered at seeing him in the uniform of an officer, raised his riding-whip and struck him over the shoulders. If he had been the savage which the negro is painted to us, he had only to breathe the insult to his twenty-five thousand soldiers, and they would have trodden out the Frenchmen in blood. But the indignant chief rode back in silence to his tent, and it was twentyfour hours before his troops heard of this insult to their general. Then the word went forth, "Death to every white man!" They had fifteen hundred prisoners. Ranged in front of the camp, they were about to be shot. Toussaint, who had a vein of religious fanaticism, like most great leaders, - like Mohammed, like Napoleon, like Cromwell, like John Brown - he could preach as well as fight, — mounting a hillock, and getting the ear of the crowd, exclaimed: "Brothers, this blood will not wipe out the insult to our chief; only the blood in yonder French camp can wipe it out. To shed that is courage; to shed this is cowardice and cruelty beside;" - and he saved fifteen hundred lives.

I cannot stop to give in detail every one of his efforts. This was in 1793. Leap with me over seven years; come to 1800; what has he achieved? He has driven the Spaniard back into

his own cities, conquered him there, and put the French banner over every Spanish town; and for the first time, and almost the last, the island obeys one law. He has put the mulatto under his feet. He has attacked Maitland, defeated him in pitched battles, and permitted him to retreat to Jamaica; and when the French army rose upon Laveaux, their general, and put him in chains, Toussaint defeated them, took Laveaux out of prison, and put him at the head of his own troops. The grateful French in return named him General-in-Chief. Cet homme

fait l'ouverture partout, said one, "This man makes an opening everywhere," - hence his soldiers named him L'Ouverture, the opening.

This was the work of seven years. Let us pause a moment, and find something to measure him by. You remember Macaulay says, comparing Cromwell with Napoleon, that Cromwell showed the greater military genius, if we consider that he never saw an army till he was forty; while Napoleon was educated from a boy in the best military schools in Europe. Cromwell manufactured his own army; Napoleon at the age of twenty-seven was placed at the head of the best troops Europe ever saw. They were both successful; but, says Macaulay, with such disadvantages, the Englishman showed the greater genius. Whether you allow the inference or not, you will at least grant that it is a fair mode of measurement. Apply it to Toussaint. Cromwell never saw an army till he was forty; this man never saw a soldier till he was fifty. Cromwell manufactured his own army-out of what? Englishmen, the best blood in Europe. Out of the middle class of Englishmen, the best blood of the island. And with it he conquered what? Englishmen, their equals. This man manufactured his army out of what? Out of what you call the despicable race of negroes, debased, demoralized by two hundred years of slavery, one hundred thousand of them imported into the island within four years, unable to speak a dialect intelligible even to each other. Yet out of this mixed, and, as you say, despicable mass, he forged a thunderbolt and hurled it at what? At the proudest blood in Europe, the Spaniard, and sent him home conquered; at the most warlike blood in Europe, the French, and put them under his feet; at the pluckiest blood in