of the Democratic and opposition party is applicable retrospectively to the politics of the State of New York. The opposition would have rarely carried this State during the last fifteen or twenty years, upon the merits orpopularity of its domestic policy.
When successful it has always had recourse to subterfuge and foreign issues, which, absorbing the attention of the people and attracting discussion from the Democratic side, overshadowed practical local issues, of paramount importance, and as a consequence resulted in preventing the Democratic party from controlling the State government.
If by experience we shall learn wisdom, the government of the State of New York cannot again fall into the hands of the opposition. The acknowledged interests of every class of her people forbid it, and every consideration of public policy and personal rights demands that the Democratic party shall, for the future, administer the government of this State, as it now administers the public policy of the nation.
HE didactic form in poetry answers to the moral essay in prose, and if the subject is equally well treated, is superior, because the maxims are more easily remembered, and the point perhaps more readily perceived. A lesson can be conveyed in this way, and illustrated by example, and sink deeper into the heart than if elaborated into a stately article, or drawn out in the shape of reflections by the pretentious historian.
That there is no real happiness in greatness, I mean in that
political greatness which is the sole aim of most men, is a saying so common, a truth so trite, that I must beg pardon for enunciating it here. But I am persuaded that our young men think too little of a fact so well known and so universally acknowledged. When any one has secured a tolerable education, straightway he enters the office of some one in the professions, usually the law, and from the legal forum he expects and intends to rise, in the process of time, to the dignity of a statesman; instead of which, he, for the most part, sticks in the stagnant pool of politics; known as an intriguer in the science, but immeasurably below the dignity and position of a statesman in the practice. Where one succeeds, how many thousands fail?
To be versed in the science of politics is an honor to any man, but while without very great abilities, no man can adorn a high station, to obtain one by intrigue and chicanery only insures his disgrace; for, be it remembered, that position does not confer talent, nor, with shame be it confessed, does talent always bring with it position. The game of politics is not only desperate, but disagreeable and disgraceful; and how many of the public men now figuring at court, in camp, or on the field, will, by posterity, be ranked among the statesmen of the day?
But, it may be answered that there are grades for all men to fill. True that is right. Let the men who are properly fitted to fill those intermediate posts be content, and not aspire to those for which they lack the qualifications. It is the constant and dishonorable struggle for place against which the objection is made. If a man really possesses qualities fitting him for exalted station, he will inevitably, sooner or latter, be called out.
Know ye, that if a young man has an education it does not therefore follow that he must be in public life. Will not that knowledge make his fireside pleasant-his wife and children more happy? Need his joys be embittered by the turmoil and heartburning of politics? Suppose him a sober and industrious mechanic, let him spend his evenings at home, reading aloud to his family-knowledge is, as it was
said of poetry, its own exceeding great reward. The soul is immortal-always acquiring. When a man quits here he begins in another sphere; but he begins above where he left off below. Get knowledge then for its own sake, and look higher for your reward than to a seat in Congress.
Peace, commerce, arts, long way your cares beguile, And ripening crops along the valleys smile, And nature answering culture, kindly gives With an unsparing hand, the means to live. Beneath your sway no shrilly sounding horn Wakes with its early noise the breezy morn; No rumbling drum nor cannon fraught with death, Strikes the quick ear or takes the laboring breath, But the shrill cock proclaims the infant day, When in the east the clouds look scarcely gray. No longer does the sun from mountain height, Shed his first beams on bayonets sparkling bright, But kindly pours upon the smiling land, Fruits, flowers, and blessings, with a liberal hand. Say, is he happier, did we know the heart,
Who leans on others for his sole support, Than the bold man who independent stands, And by his labor tills his generous lands;
Who knows no wants but those which nature knows, Who flatters not for friends, nor fears for foes? No-Nature will reverse no one decree-
He is a freeman whom the truth makes free; And he is happiest who supports himself, Both unambitious of renown or pelf, Nor asks for homage in the motley crowd, Where heads most empty, always are most loud. Can sounding titles and an empty name Blunt the sharp shaft the sons of envy aim, Smooth the rough pillow, racking pains assuage, Or keep aloof the iron hand of age? Will never pain or sickness cloud the brow, That glitters with the diamond brightly now? Beneath that smile is there no secret woe, Or does rank chase all ills from all below? No-let his titles sound however high, Around his head the shafts of envy fly; Eternal torment, and eternal hate, Are still companions of unwieldy state; And whether merit or a bribe has raised, He still by most is envied, some is praised; So, far from happiness is still his state, Those lower censure, and those higher hate. The world's great tyrant, when the world was gained, Wept as he thought no other one remained;
Wept as he saw his labor at an end,
And nothing left to conquer or defend.
What charms for him had other life than war, Unused from youth to guide the civic car; The soaring eagle fell at once to earth, Proved to the world the baseness of its birth- He seized the bowl and in debauch expired, That conquering spirit which the world had fired; He seized the bowl, and gave his mighty mind To pleasure and to riot unconfined.
Though ere he died he sternly sought and won A wider empire than his Macedon.
What joys to him did all his victories bring? What better is the world that he was king? He left a large, corrupt, unwieldy state, Cool friends, warm enemies, the title great! When England's queen, the haughty and the proud, By age, by sickness, and by grief was bowed; Though long she swayed with an imperious hand And lofty brow, the sceptre of command; Though she had left a name without decay, Revered for deeds that cannot fade away; When death, the monarch, brooked no more delay, She would have given an empire for a day. "Oh!" she exclaimed, as died the clock's sad chime, "I would give millions for an inch of time.” Count ye that fabulous which gossips tell, That she had loved not wisely, but too well; That Essex' fate weighed her worn spirit down, And she must mourn a love she dared not own; And while a foe kept back the fatal ring, Of unrequited love she felt the sting, Vowed fell revenge, and played a sovereign's part, Sad, sighing, signed, but signed with broken heart, That when he fell and honor's flag was furled, The last cord snapt that bound her to the world? Behold the bold adventurer of France, Whose nod the world but waited to advance; Whose sharp eye glanced along the dusty plain, And counted thousands by his orders slain; He, at whose name old men forgot their years, And shouted, "Vive l'Empereur," with joyous tears; Held by the French the high, the mighty mind, The great, grand climax of all human kind; To whom to plan and conquer were the same, Whose ardent mind disaster could not tame; He, fiercely tost, upon the shoals is cast- Far from his native home he breathes his last; With scarce a friendly hand to close his eyes, The first great Emperor Napoleon, dies! He raves of empire with his latest breath, And proves the ruling passion strong in death. He dies, a life of care and toil is sped, And he is numbered with the glorious dead. Above his dust let monuments arise,
And with their glittering spires assault the skies;
Let a whole nation weep upon his hearse, And poets consecrate the epic verse;
Still must the tear bedew the widow's cheek, And mourn a name she hardly dares to speak; Still must the orphan for a father sigh,
And while smiles light his cheek, tears dim his eye! Thus he, though praised, caressed, beloved by all, A ruined captive from his height could fall. Unhappy he, when towering in his pride, Consumed by wishes yet unsatisfied; And still unhappy, listening to the roar Of the great ocean, on Helena's shore.
And England's Charles could tell, if there can be A life of greatness without misery.
Born to a throne, he came in pomp and power, To play upon the stage his fitful hour; Unequal to his part, he forth was led, Cursed, wept, and honored, to a gory bed; And Cromwell rose, and ruled the hapless land With verse and cant, and cimetar and brand; Yet ruled it nobly-with a statesman's hand He sways the sceptre of supreme command, Fulfilling of his dream the high behest, "Although not king of England still the best!" Was the Protector happier in his lot,
Than plain and sturdy romwell? I trow not. For when alone an awe-struck land he swayed, Red with his sovereign's blood his conquering blade; He feared the assassin's knife, the poisoner's bowl, Nor trusted those whom but their fears control. Nor gloomy death, nor Milton's glowing pen, Nor all the good he did the commonweal, And none have shown for it more honest zeal, Could save his bones from hands of ruthless men, When the great spirit soared from mortal ken.
Thus all seek happiness. How few there be, Who the right way among these windings see. It cannot be with him whose restless mind Is striving still to overtop mankind; Nor does he find it who has once attained That envied height, to which so long he aimed; And he will sigh for freedom and repose, And the low station whence at first he rose. Though not to greatness is true bliss consigned,
It is not given to that barbarous kind, Who know no want beyond the present hour, And no superiority but power;
Whose low delights are sensual, not refined, Who has no joys in common with the mind. For pleasure is not happiness.-We know The one is common to all things below; The other, to mankind alone is given, A pledge of immortality and heaven.
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