O Death, thou teacher true and rough! Full oft I fear that we have erred, And have not loved enough; But oh, ye friends, this side of Acheron, Who cling to me to-day, I shall not know my love till ye are gone And I am gray! Fair women with your loving eyes, Old men that once my footsteps led, Sweet children,--much as all I prize, Until the sacred dust of death be shed Upon each dear and venerable head, I cannot love you as I love the dead! But now, the natural man being sown, We can more lucidly behold The spiritual one; For we, till time shall end, Full visibly shall see our friend In all his hand did mould,-- That worn and patient hand that lies so cold! When on some blessed studious day To my loved Library I wend my way, Amid the forms that give the Gallery grace His thought in that pale poet I shall trace,-- Keen Orpheus with his eyes Fixed deep in ruddy hell, Seeking amid those lurid skies The wife he loved so well,-- And feel that still therein I see All that was in my Master's thought, And, in that constant hand wherewith he wrought, The eternal type of constancy. Thou marble husband! might there be More of flesh and blood like thee! Or if, in Music's festive hall, I come to cheat me of my care, Amid the swell, the dying fall, His genius greets me there. O man of bronze! thy solemn air-- Best soother of a troubled brain-- Floods me with memories, and again As thou stand'st visibly to men, Beloved musician! so once more Crawford comes back that did thy form restore. * * * * * Well,--_requiescat_! let him pass! Good mourners, go your several ways! He needs no further rite, nor mass, Nor eulogy, who best could praise Himself in marble and in brass; Yet his best monument did raise, Not in those perishable things That men eternal deem,-- The pride of palaces and kings,-- But in such works as must avail him there, With Him who, from the extreme Love that was in his breast, Said, "Come, all ye that heavy burdens bear, And I will give you rest!" THE PRESIDENT'S MESSAGE. As a mere literary production, the Message of Mr. Buchanan is so superior to any of the Messages of his immediate predecessor, that the reader naturally expects to find in it a corresponding superiority of sentiment and aim. When we meet a man who is well-dressed, and whose external demeanor is that of a gentleman, we are prone to infer that he is also a man of upright principles and honorable feelings. But we are very often mistaken in this inference; the nice garment proves to be little better than a nice disguise; and the robe of respectability may cover the heart of a very scurvy fellow.