midnight chamber his form is visible, his
power is displayed.
{"newspaper_name": "The Washingtonian.", "edition": "01", "page": "p3", "byline": ""}
{"character_count": 1837, "word_count": 334, "ccnet_language_score": [0.9272000193595886], "ccnet_perplexity": [1955.0999755859375], "fasttext_language": ["en"]}
uliu-uiSul CHdulucI uio 1oiua 10 SioAuiCy uhc
power is displayed.


"Thou art where pillows foam,


Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around US in our peaceful home


And the world calls us forth--and thou art there!
Thou art where friend meet friend,


Beneath the shadow of the elm TO rest
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend


The Skies and swords beat down the priccly crest :"


Is it wisdom in man to forget his latter end?
Is it the part Of reason to turn away from re-
Elections like these! Shall man forget that
he is "born for higher destiny than that of
earth z"


UP, then, to the work which is before you.
Guided by honor, uprightness, virtue, piety, go
forth to the performance Of duty. In whatever
station you may move--whatever circle you
may be called to fll-act well your part. Thus
shall you secure the favor of your fellow.men,
and, better still, the favor of Almighty God.
And when your last hour shall come, although
a nation may not mourn your departure, sus-
tained by the same bright hopes which came
down to cheer him in the last conflict, to whose
recent death we have alluded, you shall find
that " the Lord of Hosts is with you, the God
Of Jacob is your refugee" and although no
proud mausoleum shall treasure up your dust,
the unsleeping eye of the Angel Of God shall
hold it in keeping, until, at the "voice Of the
Arch-angel and the trump Of God" it shall
come forth to new and immortal existence.
A thousand pleasant memories crowd around
the present moment-a thousand thoughts to
which we will not attempt to give utterance.
"Go to their sleeping bowers
Deck their lone couch of clay
With early springs uncolor'd flowers
And when these fade away,
Think of the amaranthine wreath
The bright bowers never dim
And tell me why thou fly from death,
Or hidest thy friends from him.