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NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.

"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 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.

EW England's dead! New England's dead!

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On every hill they lie;

On every 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 their prayer,

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 heed not 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.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

OMEWHAT back from the village street

SOME

Stands the old-fashioned country-seat;

Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall

An ancient timepiece says to all,

"Forever- never!

Never forever!"

Halfway up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands,

From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say at each chamber door,
"Forever never!

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Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,
"Forever never!

Never forever!"

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality:

His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;

But like the skeleton at the feast,

That warning timepiece never ceased"Forever never!

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There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told-
"Forever- never!

Never forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;

There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay in his shroud of snow;

And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, "Ah! when shall they all meet again?" As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply, "Forever-never!

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STA

She is not mad who kneels to thee;
For what I'm now, too well I know,
And what I was, and what should be.
I'll rave no more in proud despair;
My language shall be mild, though sad:
But yet I'll firmly, truly swear,

I am not mad; I am not mad.

My tyrant husband forged the tale
Which chains me in this dismal cell;
My fate unknown my friends bewail;
Oh, jailer, haste that fate to tell!

Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer:
His heart at once 't will grieve and glad
To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad; I am not mad.

He smiles in scorn, and turns the key;
He quits the grate; I knelt in vain;
His glimmering lamp, still, still I see;
'Tis gone, and all is gloom again.
Cold! bitter cold! no warmth no light!
Life, all thy comforts once I had;
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,
Although not mad; no, no, not mad.

'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain;
What! I the child of rank and wealth?
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom, friends, and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more my heart must glad,
How aches my heart, how burns my head!
But 't is not mad; no, 't is not mad.

Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this,
A mother's face, a mother's tongue?
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,

Nor round her neck how fast you clung;
Nor how with me you sued to stay;

Nor how that suit your sire forbade;

Nor how I'll drive such thoughts away; They'll make me mad; they'll make me mad.

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!

His mild, blue eyes, how bright they shone!
None ever bore a lovelier child:

And art thou now forever gone?
And must I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?
I will be free! unbar the door!
I am not mad; I am not mad.

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