es,
And to the earth its miters cast,
Lies powerless now beneath these stones.

Hark! comes there from the pyramids,
And from Siberian wastes of snow,
And Europe's hills, a voice that bids
The world he awed to mourn him? No:
The only, the perpetual dirge
That's heard there is the sea bird's cry,--
The mournful murmur of the surge,--
The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.

NOTE.--Seagirt rock, the island of St. Helena, is in the Atlantic Ocean,
nearly midway between Africa and South America. Napoleon was confined on
this island six years; until 1821, when he died and was buried there. In
1841, his remains were removed to Paris.

XXX. WAR. (148)

Charles Sumner. 1811-1874, was born in Boston. He studied at the Latin
school in his native city, graduated from Harvard University at the age of
nineteen, studied law at the same institution, and was admitted to
practice in 1834. He at once took a prominent position in his profession,
lectured to the law classes at Cambridge for several successive years,
wrote and edited several standard law books, and might have had a
professorship in the law school, had he desired it. In his famous address
on "The True Grandeur of Nations," delivered July 4, 1815, before the
municipal authorities of Boston, he took strong grounds against war among
nations. In 1851 he was elected to the United States Senate and continued
in that position till his death. As a jurist, as a statesman, as an
orator, and as a profound and scholarly writer, Mr. Sumner stands high in
the estimation of his countrymen. In physical appearance, Mr. Sumner was
grand and imposing; men often turned to gaze after him, as he passed along
the streets of his native city.
###

I need not dwell now on the waste and cruelty of war. These stare us
wildly in the face, like lurid meteor lights, as we travel the page of
history. We see the desolation and death that pursue its demoniac
footsteps. We look upon sacked towns, upon ravaged territories, upon
violated homes; we behold all the sweet charities of life changed to
wormwood and gall. Our soul is penetrated by the sharp moan of mothers,
sisters, and daughters--of fathers, brothers, and sons, who, in the
bitterness of their bereavement, refuse to be comforted. Our eyes rest at
last upon one of these fair fields, where Nature, in her abundance,
spreads her cloth of gold, spacious and apt for the entertainment of
mighty multitudes--or perhaps, from th