The undiscovered country, from whose bourne
No bachelor returns-puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of!
Thus forethought does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And numberless flirtations, long pursued,
With this regard, their currents turn awry
And lose the name of marriage.

COLONEL HALPINE'S POEM, READ AT THE FOUND. ING OF THE GETTYSBURG MONUMENT.

As men beneath some pang of grief,

Or sudden joy will dumbly stand,

Finding no words to give relief

Clear, passion-warm, complete, and brief
To thoughts with which their souls expand,
So here to-day those trophies nigh,

No fitting words our lips can reach;
The hills around, the graves, the sky,
The silent poem of the eye,

Surpasses all the art of speech!

To-day a nation meets to build

A nation's trophy to the dead,

Who, living, formed her sword and shield,
The arms she sadly learned to wield,
When other hope of peace had fled;
And not alone for those who lie
In honored graves before us blest,
Shall our proud column broad and high,
Climb upward to the blessing sky
But be for all a monument.

An emblem of our grief as well
For others, as for these, we raise;

For these beneath our feet who dwell,
And all who in the good cause fell,
On other fields in other frays.

To all the self-same love we bear

Which here for marbled memory strives;
No soldier for a wreath would care,

Which all true comrades might not share,--
Brothers in death as in their lives.

On southern hill-sides, parched and brown,
In tangled swamps, on verdant ridge,

NUMBER ONE.

Where pines and broadening oaks look down
And jasmine waves its yellow crown,
And trumpet-creepers clothe the hedge,
Along the shores of endless sand,
Beneath the palms of southern plains,

Sleep everywhere, hand locked in hand,

The brothers of the gallant band

Who here poured life through throbbing veins.

Around the closing eyes of all,

The same red glories glared and flew ;
The hurrying flags, the bugle call,
The whistle of the angry ball,

The elbow-touch of comrade true,
The skirmish fire, a spattering spray,
The long sharp growl of fire by file,
The thick'ning fury of the fray
When opening batteries get in play,
And the lines form o'er many a mile.

The foeman's yell, our answering cheer,
Red flashes through the gathering smoke,
Swift orders, resonant and clear,

Blithe cries from comrades, tried and dear.
The shell-scream and the sabre stroke,
The volley fire, from left to right,
From right to left, we hear it swell,
The headlong charges, swift and bright,
The thick'ning tumult of the fight,
And bursting thunders of the shell.

Now closer, denser, grows the strife,
And here we yield, and there we gain;
The air with hurtling missiles rife,
Volley for volley, life for life;
No time to heed the cries of pain.
Panting, as up the hills we charge,
Or down them as we broken roll,
Life never felt so high, so large,
And never o'er so wide a range
In triumph swept the kindling soul.

New raptures waken in the breast,
Amid this hell of scene and sound,
The barking batteries never rest,
And broken foot, by horsemen pressed,
Still stubbornly contest their ground;
Fresh waves of battle rolling in,
To take the place of shattered waves?
Torn lines that grow more bent and thin,
A blinding cloud, a maddening din,—
'Twas then we filled these very graves.

C*

Night falls at length with pitying veil,
A moonlit silence, deep and fresh.
These upturned faces, stained and pale,
Vainly the chill night dews assail;
Far colder than the dews their flesh.
And flickering far, through brush and wood,
Go searching parties, torch in hand.

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Seize if you can some rest and food, At dawn the fight will be renewed,Sleep on arms!" the hushed command.

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They talk in whispers as they lie
In line, these rough and weary men.
Dead or but wounded?" then a sigh;
"No coffin either?" "Guess will try
To get those two guns back again."
"We've five flags to their one, oho!"
"That bridge! "Twas not there as we passed.
"The Colonel dead? It can't be so.
Wounded, badly, that I know,
But he kept his saddle to the last."

"Be sure to send it, if I fall."
"Any tobacco? Bill, have you?"

"A brown-haired, blue-eyed laughing doll." Good-night boys, and God keep you all." What, sound asleep? Guess I'll sleep too." "Aye, just about this hour they pray

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For dad." Stop talking, pass the word."
And soon as quiet as the clay

Which thousands will but be next day,
The long-drawn sighs of sleep are heard.

Oh! men, to whom this sketch, though rude
Calls back some scene of pain and pride;
Oh! widow, hugging close your brood,

Oh! wife, with happiness renewed,

Since he again is at your side;
This trophy that to-day we raise
Should be a monument for all,
And on its side no niggard phrase
Confine a generous nation's praise

To those who here have chanced to fall.

But let us all to-day combine

Still other monuments to raise;
Here for the dead we build a shrine,
And now to those who crippled pine
Let us give hope of happier days.
Let homes of those sad wrecks of war
Through all the land with speed arise;

They cry from every gaping scar,
"Let not our brother's tomb debar
The wounded living from your eyes."
A noble day, a deed as good,

A noble scene in which 'tis done,
The birth-day of our nationhood,
And here again the nation stood,
On this same day its life was won!
A bloom of banners in the air,
A double calm of sky and soul,
Triumphal chant and bugle blare,
And green fields spreading bright and fair,
As heavenward our hosannas roll.

Hosannas for a land redeemed,

The bayonet sheathed, the cannon dumb!
Passed as some horror we have dreamed,
The fiery meteors that here streamed,
Threat'ning within our homes to come!
Again our banner floats abroad,
Gone the one stain that on it fell;
And bettered by his chast'ning rod,
With streaming eyes uplift to God,
We say, "He doeth all things well."

CRIME ITS OWN DETECTER.-DANIEL WEBSTER.

Against the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I cannot have the slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest injury or injustice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery and the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the opprobrium, how much soever it may be, which is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious concern that all who had a part in planning, or a hand in executing, this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought to answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public justice.

Gentlemen, this is a most extraordinary case. In some respects it has hardly a precedent anywhere-certainly none in our New England history. An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butchery murder, for mere pay. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man to whom sleep was sweet-the first sound slumbers of the night hold him in their soft but strong embrace.

The assassin enters through the window, already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment; with noiseless foot he paces

the lonely hail, half lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on its hinges; and he enters and beholds his victim before him. The room was uncommonly light. The face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer; and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given, and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death! It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work; and he yet plies the dagger, though it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fan in his aim at the heart, and replaces it again over the wound of the poniard! To finish the picture, he explores te wrist for the pulse! he feels for it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished the deed is done! He retreats-retraces his steps to the window, passes through as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder; no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him; the secret is his own, and it is safe!

Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds everything as in the splendor of noon,―such secrets of guilt are never safe; "murder will out." True it is that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intently dwell on the scene; shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself-or rather it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself-it labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant; it finds itself preyed on by a torment which it dares not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is devouring it, and it asks no sympathy or assistance either from heaven or earth. The