They may not at once arrive at the various truths, which are designed to be taught; but they will silently master them. And by the time they have passed through the usual preparatory studies of the school, they will have acquired a stock of materials for future use, of inestimable value-a stock, which will furnish perpetual sources for meditation, and enable them to lay a broad foundation for the due discharge of the duties of private citizens, and the more arduous employments of public life. Lord Brougham, one of the most powerful advocates of popular education in our day, has made the following remarks, which cannot be more fitly addressed to the consideration of any other body than that, which I have now the honor to address. "A sound system of government," says he, " requires the people to read, and inform themselves upon political subjects; else they are prey of every quack, every impostor, and every agitator, who may practise his trade in the country. If they do not read; if they do not learn; if they do not digest, by discussion and reflection, what they have read and learned; if they do not qualify themselves to form opinions for themselves, other men will form opinions for them; not according to the truth and the interests of the people, but according to their own individual and selfish interest, which may, and most probably will, be contrary to that of the people at large. The best security for a government, like ours, (a free government,) and generally, for the public peace and public morals, is, that the whole community should be well informed upon its political, as well as its other interests. And it can be well informed only by having access to wholesome, sound, and impartial publications." I shall conclude this discourse with a single sentence, borrowed from the great work of Cicero on the Republic, the most mature, and not least important, of his splendid labors-a sentence, which should always be present to the mind of every American citizen, as a guide and incentive to duty. "Our country," said that great man, "has not given us birth, or educated us under her law, as if she expected no succour from us; or, that, seeking to administer to our convenience only, she might afford a safe retreat for the indulgence of our ease, or a peaceful asylum for our indolence; but that she might hold in pledge the various and most exalted powers of our mind, our genius, and our judgment, for her own benefit; and that she might leave for our private use such portions only, as might be spared for that purpose." * Cicero, De Republicâ, lib. 1. cap. 4. LINES, WRITTEN ON THE Death of a daugHTER, IN MAY, 1831. FAREWELL, my darling child, a sad farewell! Thy last, soft prayer was heard - No more to roam; The slow, dead hours, the sighs without relief, That part our hopes, our fates, our paths, from thine! Most lovely thou! in beauty's rarest truth! A cherub's face; the breathing blush of youth; A smile more sweet than seemed to mortal given; An eye that spoke, and beamed the light of heaven; A temper, like the balmy summer sky, That soothes, and warms, and cheers, when life beats high; Gave, as it moved, a fresh and varying grace; A voice, whose music warbled notes of mirth, Its tones unearthly, or scarce formed for earth; A mind, which kindled with each passing thought, *The last words, uttered but a few moments before her death, were, to go home." "I want These were thy bright attractions; these had power To spread a nameless charm o'er every hour. Thy ceaseless flow of feeling, like the rill, Thy chief delight to fix thy parents' gaze, Win their fond kiss, or gain their modest praise. When sickness came, though short, and hurried o'er, It made thee more an angel than before. How patient, tender, gentle, though disease Preyed on thy life! - how anxious still to please! How oft around thy mother's neck entwined Spoke all thy love, as language ne'er could speak! But oh! how vain, by art, or words, to tell, When death strikes down, with sudden crush and power, Most vain to tell, how deep that long despair, Which time ne'er heals, which time can scarce impair. Yet still I love to linger on the strain 'Tis grief's sad privilege. When we complain, Our hearts are eased of burdens hard to bear; We mourn our loss, and feel a comfort there. My child, my darling child, how oft with thee How changed the scene! In every favorite walk I miss thy flying steps, thy artless talk ; Where'er I turn, I feel thee ever near; Some frail memorial comes, some image dear. Each spot still breathes of thee - each garden flower 22 |