"That one lucid interval snatched from the gloom And the madness of ages, when filled with one soul, A nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom,

And for one sacred instant touched liberty's goal,-" and Mr. Grattan, rising slowly in her House of Commons, said: "I am now to address a free people; ages have passed away, and this is the first moment in which you could be distinguished by that appellation. I found Ireland on her knees; I watched over her with an eternal solicitude. I have traced her progress from injuries to arms, from arms to liberty. Spirit of Swift, spirit of Molyneux, your genius has prevailed! Ireland is now a nation. In that character, I hail her; and, bowing to her august presence, I say, Live Forever!"

Men heard that eloquence in 1776, in that manifold and mighty appeal by the genius and wisdom of that new America, to persuade the people to take on the name of nation, and begin its life. By how many pens and tongues that great pleading was conducted; through how many months, before the date of the actual Declaration, it went on, day after day; in how many forms, before how many assemblies, from the village newspaper, the more careful pamphlet, the private conversation, the townmeeting, the legislative bodies of particular colonies, up to the Hall of the immortal old Congress, and the master intelligences of lion heart and eagle eye, that ennobled it,—all this you know.

But the leader in that great argument was John Adams, of Massachusetts. He, by concession of all men, was the orator of that revolution,- the revolution in which a nation was born. Other and

renowned names, by written or spoken eloquence, coöperated effectively, splendidly, to the grand result, Samuel Adams, Samuel Chase, Jefferson, Henry, James Otis in an earlier stage. Each of these, and a hundred more, within circles of influence wider or narrower, sent forth, scattering broadcast, the seed of life in the ready, virgin soil.

Each brought some specialty of gift to the work: Jefferson, the magic of style, and the habit and the power of delicious dalliance with those large, fair ideas of freedom and equality, so dear to man, so irresistible in that day; Henry, the indescribable and lost spell of the speech of the emotions, which fills. the eye, chills the blood, turns the cheek pale, -the lyric phase of eloquence, the "fire-water," as Lamartine has said, of the revolution, instilling into the sense and the soul the sweet madness of battle; Samuel Chase, the tones of anger, confidence, and pride, and the art to inspire them.

John Adams's eloquence alone seemed to have met every demand of the time. As a question of right, as a question of prudence, as a question of immediate opportunity, as a question of feeling, as a question of conscience, as a question of historical and durable and innocent glory, he knew it all, through and through; and in that mighty debate, which, beginning in Congress as far back as March or February, 1776, had its close on the second, and on the fourth of July, he presented it in all its aspects, to every passion and affection,- to the burning sense of wrong, exasperated at length beyond control by the shedding of blood; to grief, anger, self-respect; to the desire of happiness and of safety; to the

sense of moral obligation, commanding that the duties of life are more than life; to courage, which fears God, and knows no other fear; to that large and heroical ambition which would build States, that imperial philanthropy which would open to liberty an asylum here, and give to the sick heart, hard fare, fettered conscience of the children of the Old World, healing, plenty, and freedom to worship God, to these passions, and these ideas, he presented the appeal for months, day after day, until, on the third of July, 1776, he could record the result, writing thus, to his wife: "Yesterday, the greatest question was decided which ever was debated in America; and a greater, perhaps, never was, nor will be, among men."

Of that series of spoken eloquence all is perished; not one reported sentence has come down to us. The voice through which the rising spirit of a young nation sounded out its dream of life is hushed. The great spokesman, of an age unto an age, is dead.

And yet of those lost words is not our whole America one immortal record and reporter? Do ye not read them, deep cut, defying the tooth of time, on all the marble of our greatness? How they blaze on the pillars of our Union! How is their deep sense unfolded and interpreted by every passing hour! how do they come to life, and grow audible, as it were, in the brightening rays of the light he foresaw, as the fabled invisible harp gave out its music to the morning!

Yes, in one sense they are perished. No parchment manuscript, no embalming printed page, no certain traditions of living or dead, have kept them.

Yet, from out, and from off, all things around us,our laughing harvests, our songs of labor, our commerce on all the seas, our secure homes, our schoolhouses and churches, our happy people, our radiant and stainless flag,- how they come pealing, pealing, Independence now, and Independence forever!

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,

Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree

The blood is all aglee,

And there's a look about the leafless bowers
As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still on every side we trace the hand
Of Winter in the land,

Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn.

Or where, like those strange semblances we find

That age to childhood bind,

The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,

The brown of Autumn corn.

As yet the turf is dark, although you know
That, not a span below,

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.

Already, here and there, on frailest stems

Appear some azure gems,

Small as might deck, upon a gala day,
The forehead of a fay.

In gardens you may note amid the dearth
The crocus breaking earth;

And near the snowdrop's tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and shadows needs must pass
Along the budding grass,

And weeks go by before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth,

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn

In the sweet airs of morn :

One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings, you know not why,

A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate