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!
Thou art gone from earth, in heavenly scenes to dwell ;
For sure, if ever being, formed from dust,
Might hope for bliss, thine is that holy trust.
Spotless and pure, from God thy spirit came;
Spotless it has returned, a brighter flame.

Thy last, soft prayer was heard - No more to roam;
Thou art, ('t was all thy wish,) thou art gone home. *
Ours are the loss, and agonizing grief,

The slow, dead hours, the sighs without relief,
The lingering nights, the thoughts of pleasure past,
Memory, that wounds, and darkens, to the last.
How desolate the space, how deep the line,

That part our hopes, our fates, our paths, from thine!
We tread with faltering steps the shadowy shore ;
Thou art at rest, where storms can vex no more.
When shall we meet again, and kiss away
The tears of joy in one eternal day?

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;
A bounding spirit, which, in sportive chase,

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,
And gathered treasures, when they least were sought ;—

*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.
But that, which, more than all, could bliss impart,
Was thy warm love, thy tender, buoyant heart,

Thy ceaseless flow of feeling, like the rill,
That fills its sunny banks, and deepens still.

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
Thy arms were folded, as to Heaven resigned!
How oft thy kisses on her pallid cheek

Spoke all thy love, as language ne'er could speak!
E'en the last whisper of thy parting breath
Asked, and received, a mother's kiss, in death.

But oh! how vain, by art, or words, to tell,
What ne'er was told, affection's magic spell!
More vain to tell that sorrow of the soul,
That works in secret, works beyond control,

When death strikes down, with sudden crush and power,
Parental hope, and blasts its opening flower.

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
Have I passed hours of blameless ecstasy!
How oft have wandered, oft have paused to hear
Thy playful thoughts fall sweetly on my ear!
How oft have caught a hint beyond thy age,
Fit to instruct the wise, or charm the sage!
How oft, with pure delight, have turned to see
Thy beauty felt by all, except by thee;
Thy modest kindness, and thy searching glance;
Thy eager movements, and thy graceful dance;
And, while I gazed with all a father's pride,
Concealed a joy, worth all on earth beside!

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
Tells of the past, in sunshine, or in shower;
And, here, the chair, and, there, the sofa stands,
Pressed by thy form, or polished by thy hands.
My home, how full of thee!— But where art thou?
Gone, like the sunbeam from the mountain's brow;
But, unlike that, once passed the fated bourn,
Bright beam of heaven, thou never shalt return.
Yet, yet, it soothes my heart on thee to dwell;
LOUISA, darling child, farewell, farewell!

22