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What does the poor man's son inherit ?-
A patience learned by being poor,

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door:
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

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Oh! rich man's son, there is a toil
That with all others level stands;

Large charity doth never soil,
But only whitens, soft, white hands :
This is the best crop from the lands:
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.


Oh! poor man's son, scorn not thy state ;-
There is worse weariness than thine,

In merely being rich and great;
Work only makes the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign:
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.



Both heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;

Both children of the same dear God;
Prove title to your heirship vast,
By record of a well-filled past :
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.



“I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs

There she is; behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her history. The world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is

There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker
Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons,
falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with
the soil of every state, from New England to Georgia; and there
they will remain forever.”- Webster's Speech.
New ENGLAND'S DEAD! New England's dead!

On every hill they lie;

field of strife made red By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle poured

Its red and awful tide,
Beheld the brave New England sword

With slaughter deeply dyed.
Their bones are on the northern hill,

And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.




The land is holy where they fought,

And holy where they fell;
For by their blood that land was bought,

The land they loved so well.
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviors of the land !
Oh ! few and weak their numbers were,-

A handful of brave men ;
But to their God they gave


And rushed to battle then.
The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.
They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half garnered, on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress.
To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe,




And where are ye, O fearless men ?

And where are ye to-day?
I call :-the hills reply again

That ye have passed away;
That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright,

Above each soldier's mound,


The bugle's wild and warlike blast

Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,

And they not heed its roar.


The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,

In many a bloody day,
From their old graves shall rouse them not,

For they have passed away.


Here rest the great and good,-here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year

Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves, 5 And gathers them again, as winter frowns.

Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre,-green sods
Are all their monument; and yet it tells
A nobler history, than pillared piles,

Or the eternal pyramids. They need 10 No statue nor inscription to reveal

Their greatness. It is round them; and the joy
With which their children tread the hallowed ground
That holds their venerated bones, the peace

That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth 15 That clothes the land they rescued—these, though mute

As feeling ever is when deepest,—these
Are monuments more lasting, than the fanes
Reared to the kings and demigods of old.

Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade 20 Over their lowly graves; beneath their boughs

There is a solemn darkness, even at noon,
Suited to such as visit at the shrine
Of serious liberty. No factious voice
Called them unto the field of

generous fame, 25 But the pure consecrated love of home.

No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes
In all its greatness. It has told itself
To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings,

At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,
30 Where first our patriots sent the invader back

Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all
To tell us where they fought, and where they lie.
Their feelings were all nature; and they need

No art to make them known. They live in us, 35 While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold, Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts,

And the one universal Lord. They need
No column pointing to the heaven they sought,
To tell us of their home. The heart itself,
Left to its own free purpose,

hastens there, 5 And there alone reposes. Let these elms

Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves,
And build with their green roof the only fane,
Where we may gather on the hallowed day,

That rose to them in blood, and set in glory.
10 Here let us meet; and while our motionless lips

Give not a sound, and all around is mute
In the deep sabbath of a heart too full
For words or tears,-here let us strew the sod

With the first flowers of spring, and make to them 15 An offering of the plenty, Nature gives,

And they have rendered ours,-perpetually.

O holy and eternal Truth!

Thou art
An emanation of the Eternal Mind!
A glorious attribute,-a noble part
Of uncreated being!

Who can find,
5 By diligent searching,—who can find out thee,

The Incomprehensible,—the Deity!
The human mind is a reflection caught

From thee, a trembling shadow of thy ray.

Thy glory beams around us, but the thought 10

That heavenward wings its daring flight away
Returns to where its fight was first begun,
Blinded and dark beneath the noon-day sun.
The soul of man, though sighing after thee,

Hath never known thee, saving as it knows
15 The stars of heaven, whose glorious light we see

The sun, whose radiance dazzles as it glows;
Something, that is beyond us, and above
The reach of human power, though not of humar love

Vainly Philosophy may strive to teach 20 The secret of thy being. Its faint

ray Misguides our steps. Beyond the utmost reach

of its untiring wing, the eternal day

Of truth is shining on the longing eye,
Distant,munchanged,—changeless,-pure and high !
And yet thou hast not left thyself without

A revelation. All we feel and see
5. Within us and around, forbids to doubt,

Yet speaks so darkly and mysteriously
Of what we are and shall be evermore,
We doubt, and yet believe, and tremble and adore !



Two hundred years ago, the place* on which we stand was an uncultivated forest. The rough and vigorous soil was still covered with the stately trees, which had been,

for ages, intermingling their branches and deepening the 5 shade. The river, which now bears, on its bright and

pure waters, the treasures of distant climates, and whose rapid current is stemmed and vexed by the arts and enterprise of man, then only rippled against the rocks, and

reflected back the wild and grotesque thickets which over10 hung its banks. The mountain, which now swells on our

left, and raises its verdant side, “ shade above shade,” was then almost concealed by the lofty growth which covered the intervening plains. Behind us, a deep morass, extend

ing across to the northern creek, almost enclosed the little 15 “ Bank,” which is now the seat of so much life and indus

try. It was then a wild and tangled thicket, interspersed with venerable trees and moss-grown rocks, and presenting, here and there, a sunny space, covered with the blos

soms and early fruit of the little plant that gave it its name. 20 This “ Bank," so wild and rude, two hundred years ago, was first impressed with the step of civilized man.

The influence of local association is strong and universal. There is no one who has not felt it; and if it were

possible, it would be useless to withdraw the mind from its 25 effects. We owe many of our deepest emotions, our high

est and most ennobling feelings, to the suggestions of external nature. The place which has been distinguished by the residence of one whom we love and admire, kindles in our minds a thousand conceptions, which we can scarcely

* Portsmouth.

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