anity, of culture, of the great, gentle, and sure reformer, time; that to enable us to do this, to enable us to grasp this boundless and everrenewing harvest of philanthropy, it would have been a good bargain--that humanity itself would have approved it-to have bound ourselves never so much as to look across the line into the inclosure of Southern municipal slavery; certainly never to enter it; still less, still less to

"Pluck its berries harsh and crude

And with forced fingers rude

Shatter its leaves before the mellowing year."

Until the accuser who charges him, now that he is in his grave, with "having sinned against his conscience," will assert that the conscience of a public man may not, must not, be instructed by profound knowiedge of the vast subject-matter with which public life is conversanteven as the conscience of the mariner may be and must be instructed by the knowledge of navigation; and that of the pilot by the knowledge of the depths and shallows of the coast; and that of the engi neer of the boat and the train, by the knowledge of the capacities of his mechanism, to achieve a proposed velocity; and will assert that he is certain that the consummate science of our great statesman was felt by himself to prescribe to his morality another conduct than that which he adopted, and that he thus consciously outraged that " sense of duty which pursues us ever"-is he not inexcusable, whoever he is, that so judges another?

But it is time that this eulogy was spoken. My heart goes back into the coffin there with him, and I would pause. I went it is a day or two since-alone, to see again the home which he so dearly loved, the chamber where he died, the grave in which they laid him—all habited as when

"His look drew audience still as night,
Or summer's noontide air,"

till the heavens be no more. Throughout that spacious and calm scene all things to the eye showed at first unchanged. The books in the library, the portraits, the table at which he wrote, the scientific culture of the land, the course of agricultural occupation, the coming in of the harvest, fruit of the seed his own hand had scattered; the animals and implements of husbandry, the trees planted by him in lines, in copses, in orchards, by thousands; the seat under the noble elm on which he used to sit to feel the southwest wind at evening, or hear the breathings of the sea, or the not less audible music of the starry heavens, all seemed at first unchanged. The sun of a bright day, from which, however, something of the fervors of midsummer were wanting, fell temperately on them all, filled the air on all sides with the utterances of life, and gleamed on the long line of ocean. Some of those whom on earth he loved best, still were there.

The

great mind still seemed to preside; the great presence to be with you; you might expect to hear again the rich and playful tones of the voice of the old hospitality. Yet a moment more, and all the scene took on the aspect of one great monument, inscribed with his name, and sacred to his memory. And such it shall be in all the future of America! The sensation of desolateness, and loneliness, and darkness, with which you see it now, will pass away; the sharp grief of love and friendship will become soothed; men will repair thither as they are wont to commemorate the great days of history; the same glance shall take in, and the same emotions shall greet and bless the Harbor of the Pilgrims and the Tomb of Webster.

PERIOD THIRD.

PRESERVATION.

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

Mine eves have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored s He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps:
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal:
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shalt never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat;
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free.
While God is marching on.

JULIA WARD Howe