We have, within a very short time, been called together upon one, upon two, upon three, and upon four sad and melancholy occasions like this. Let us each ask ourselves whose turn will it be next, remembering the direction-"BE YE ALSO READY." JUDGE WHITING.

FROM A FUNERAL EULOGY ON HENRY CLAY.

He had seen most of his children fall around him-one upon the battle field, others by the hand of disease and unexpected death. He had felt the anguish and sorrow of the sudden rupture of the holiest of ties-he had wept over the graves of his own loved offspring-but his country remained. There she stood a beacon of liberty to the enthralled of other shores. * * * Glorious termination of a well-spent life! Children of America, revere his memory!-imitate his example-emulate his virtue! * * * Women of America! Ye, around whom our affections cluster, and upon whom they depend, cherish in your heart of hearts the memory of the departed patriot, and to the lisping infant chant the story of his greatness and his honest fame. Tell your children of his filial reverence and devotion; of his untiring energy, his lofty aims, his noble bearing, and his self-sacrificing spirit. *

*

*

BLUNT.

FROM AN EULOGY ON AN EMINENT ADVOCATE.

Nathaniel Bowditch Blunt, has been suddenly stricken down in the midst of usefulness and honors! But yesterday, he stood at the forum in the plenitude of health and mental vigor, pleading in defence of woman's honor, and baring his breast to receive in her defence the rude assaults of personal rancor. To-day, and the sun prepares its setting rays to gild the tomb of his last mortal repose.

It is hard for the eye which directs these pencillings to view them with calmness; it is racking for the nerves which control these expressions of eulogy to maintain the firmness of composition, for he whose untimely removal from earth, half a million of citizens of this State deplore, was the friend and benefactor of "Hans Yorkel"-the man whose love I owned and prized-the orator whose excellencies I would have been proud to imitate the adviser whose learning was my storehouse in hours of mental need-and the public man whose virtues I was proud to assist in honoring.

* * *

Gifted with acute perception of human nature, and its springs and ultimate bearings-endowed with gigantic memory-blessed with mental vigor that recuperated under heaviest labors-intuitively possessed with logical powers and illustrative language of marvellous beauty and endless variety, Mr. Blunt was a natural orator, excelling even the rules of art. Engaging in address-eminently so

cial-fond of popularity, not so much for its selfish possession as for its evidence that he did not strive and live in vain-his professional and public life needed no adventitious stimulants from circumstance * * * or tact.

He preserved in an eminent degree the freshness and hilarity of boyhood. There was no honorable sport he did not love. The horse-the dog-the gun and the rod were his studies and delights. He loved the roaming in the free fresh air—the tramp over green meadows-the saunter by the sparkling brook-the lounge beneath the monarch tree-the romp which children love,

Which children love!

Ah, how the expression calls me to his home where love and duty reigned in unison, and strengthened force. All that love could suggestthat ingenuity could devise-that sympathy could prompt—that indulgence could grant—that generosity could provide, were brought to his hearthstone and scattered in unselfish profusion at the feet of wife, children and friends. They, to whom the secrets of his domestic repose are best known, preserve in their heart of hearts a chapter for contemplation, to proudly beat at, which the public eye may never read.

His last professional effort was in a suit which lasted weeks. He became deeply interested in his client, a lady of family and individual worth. She

was assailed, and he defended. His mental energies were spurred, and the fibres of his brain stretched to the uttermost point of eagerness and hope. The trial closed, but not with the entire result that he expected, and which all said he deserved. Midsummer approached, and with the closing of the forum gates, nature opened her domains to his loved and loving approach. He wooed their delights with more of eagerness than discretion. Disease invaded his herculean frame, and attacked his brain, so much in need of rest. The storehouse of thought yielded to the pressure of confusion which run riot within its chambers, and he died with the ruling passion strong in death. While on the confines of the other world, he was the unconscious advocate-once more he stood at the bar-once more he plead for woman's honor-once more he baffled fraud and wrong-and so died, pleading his heart's blood out into the relentless grave, while the hours of the Sabbath were closing to the world at large, but opening to him. A. OAKEY HALL.

IX.

POETRY ON THE DEAD.

The Common Fot.

ONCE in the flight of ages past,

There lived a MAN-and WHO WAS HE?
Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,

That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perished from the earth;
This truth survives alone-

That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and wo,-a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirit's rise and fall-
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffered, but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoyed, but his delights are fled;

Had friends, his friends are now no more;
And foes,-his foes are dead.