I must conclude, having already occupied too much space in your valuable magazine, but the subject was too interesting and important to justify one in attempting to vindicate our cherished doctrines from the attack of so able a champion as JUDGE HOPKINSON, in too cursory an examination of his views. In conclusion, I must remark, that although we have to lament the misfortune of differing with that able and learned gentleman, and the lamented and illustrious MARSHALL, we feel no doubt of the support of HENRY, JEFFERSON, and
ROANE.2
2 One word more. This article was written in great haste for the August number. Instead of this an addition to his letter was published by Judge Hopkinson, under his own name, in that number. It requires notice as imperiously as his letter. It must be noticed in the October Messenger. But briefly, very briefly. Subsequent investigation has satisfied the writer, that the Judge's opinions, both as to the novelty and weakness of our doctrines, are much less supported, either by authority or reason, than he had supposed, when he was writing this article. He thinks even the Judge himself may be convinced that “politicians of a later date” than the adoption of the constitution, are not the “authors of the doctrine of instructions.”
R.
DEATH OF THE PATRIOT.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.
Unembitter'd by hate, and untroubled by strife,
Shall the Patriot we loved, to the dark grave descend,
Whilst the foes of his well-spent, political life,
Have forgot each distinction in the wide term of friend.
Each doubt that had whisper'd against him before,
Each feeling of Envy, of Jealousy, Hate—
Now awed into silence and sorrow, deplore,
Nor seek to detract from the fame of the great!
And great may we call him, whose mind in its scope,
No barrier could limit, no danger could tame;
Whose love for his country kept pace with the hope
That prompted her efforts and led her to fame—
Whose eye overlooking the clouds and the coil
That grow with the darkness and din of the hour,
Beheld from afar the reward of his toil,
And hailed the bright promise that told of her power—
Whose soul to its purpose and attributes true,
Sublimed far beyond mere humanity's scan,
Toiled fearlessly still for the glory in view,
The rights, and the triumph, and freedom of man!—
No voice in that cause was more potent or free,—
No spirit more fearless, no feeling more strong,
And its eloquence bold, like a stream from the sea,
Bore down, all resistless, each bulwark of wrong.
Oppression grew humbled—the tyrant grew pale,—
Ancient Error, in fear for her temple and tower,
Arrayed her foul agents, and strove to assail,
But in vain—the brave spirit that grappled her power.
And down went her bulwarks, and snapp'd was her chain,
Her subtle pretences like webs, torn apart,
Left man, as creation first spake him,—again,
Unshackled by Error, by Power, by Art!
And this was his triumph! The first of that band,
The high, the unshaken, unselfish and true,
Who dared in the front of the danger to stand,
Defying its force, and defeating it too.
Make his grave in the rock which the pilgrim may see,
And seek, o'er the fathomless waves of the deep;
But his monument build in the hearts of the free,
The treasure most dear that a freeman can keep.
And shed not a tear when ye think on his name,
And mourn not his loss, who, in dying, has given,
A record of triumphs, the proudest in fame,
A charter of freedom as lovely as Heaven.