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.

to fix an uncertain date in our annals, nor to draw into notice an obscure and unknown spot. If our humble purpose had never been conceived, if we ourselves had never been born, the 17th of June, 1775, would have been a day on which all subsequent history would have poured its light, and the eminence where we stand a point of attraction to the eyes of successive generations. But we are Americans.

We live in what may be called the early age of this great continent; and we know that our posterity, through all time, are here to enjoy and suffer the allotments of humanity. We see before us a probable train of great events; we know that our own fortunes have been happily cast; and it is natural, therefore, that we should be moved by the contemplation of occurrences which have guided our destiny before many of us were born, and settled the condition in which we shall pass that portion of our existence which God allows to men on earth.

We do not read even of the discovery of this continent without feeling something of a personal interest in the event; without being reminded how much it has affected our own fortunes and our own existence.

It is more impossible for us, therefore, than for others, to contemplate with unaffected minds that interesting, I may say that most touching and pathetic, scene when the great discoverer of America stood on the deck of his shattered bark, the shades of night falling on the sea, yet no man sleeping; tossed on the billows of an unknown ocean, yet the stronger billows of alternate hope and despair tossing his own troubled thoughts; extending forward

his harassed frame, straining westward his eager and anxious eyes, till Heaven at last granted him a moment of rapture and ecstasy, in blessing his vision with the sight of the unknown world.

Nearer to our times, more closely connected with our fates, and therefore still more interesting to our feelings and affections, is the settlement of our own country by colonists from England. We cherish every memorial of these worthy ancestors; we celebrate their patience and fortitude; we admire their daring enterprise; we teach our children to venerate their piety, and we are justly proud of being descended from men who have set the world an example of founding civil institutions on the great and united principles of human freedom and human knowledge. To us, their children, the story of their labors and their sufferings can never be without its interest.

We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious actions is most safely deposited in the universal remembrance of mankind. We know that if we could cause this structure to ascend, not only till it reached the skies, but till it pierced them, its broad surfaces could still contain but part of that which, in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread over the earth, and which history charges itself with making known to all future times. We know that no inscription on entablatures less broad than the earth itself can carry information of the events we commemorate where it has not already gone; and that no structure which shall not outlive the duration of letters and knowledge among men can prolong the memorial.