their heads, and so could not wield their axes so well as before.

his hand But now

King Harold still stood with his ax in and his shield pierced with several arrows. the hour of our great king was come. Every foe who had come near him had felt the might of that terrible ax, but his ax could not guard against this awful shower of arrows. One shaft, falling, as I said, from heaven, pierced his right eye. He clutched at it and broke off the shaft; his ax dropped from his hand, and he fell, all disabled by pain, in his own place as king, between the two royal ensigns.

Twenty Norman knights swore to take the standard, now that the king no longer defended it. They rushed on; most of them were killed by the English, who still fought around their wounded king; but those who escaped succeeded in beating down the standard of the "Fighting Man" and in bearing off the golden dragon. That ancient ensign, which had shone over so many battle-fields, was never again carried before a true English king.

ABSALOM.

N. P. WILLIS.

The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves, With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned in graceful attitudes to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world!

He had fled

King David's limbs were weary. From far Jerusalem; and he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest, Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank, And spoke their kindly words; and as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh, when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor, common words of courtesy Are such an empty mockery - how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But oh! for Absalom

For his estranged, misguided Absalom

The proud, bright being who had burst away

In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherished him-for him he poured,

In agony that would not be controlled,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. * * *

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom.

His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form.

Of David entered, and he gave command,

In a low tone, to his few followers,

And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:

"Alas, my noble boy, that thou shouldst die! Thou who wert made so beautifully fair! That Death should settle in thy glorious eye

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom?

"Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill

As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How I was wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father!' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,

And the dark tresses to the soft winds flungBut thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh when I am stricken, and my heart,

Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; And thy dark sin! Oh, I could drink the cup,

If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

bier, a frame on which a corpse is laid.
con vul' sive ly, in spasms.
pall, covering for the dead.
sack' cloth', garment or cloth worn in
mourning.

al lot' ment, what is allotted or assigned to.

en tab' la ture, slab or plate of stone in a wall or the like, suitable for inscription.

FIRST ORATION ON BUNKER HILL
MONUMENT. 1

DANIEL WEBSTER.

The uncounted multitude before me and around me proves the feeling which the occasion has excited. These thousands of human faces, glowing with sympathy and joy, and from the impulses of a common gratitude turned reverently to heaven in this spacious temple of the firmament, proclaim that the day, the place, and the purpose of our assembling have made a deep impression on our hearts.

If, indeed, there be anything in local association fit to affect the mind of man, we need not strive to repress the emotions which agitate us here. We are among the sepulchers of our fathers. We are on ground distinguished by their valor, their constancy, and the shedding of their blood. We are here, not

1 Extract from a speech made by Webster, on the laying of the corner stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, June 17, 1825.