[Sonnet 1.] The name of Washington is in the heart of all Americans. Fifty years ago, that is in 1809, in the first edition of the American Biographical Dictionary, I devoted nearly 20 pages to a memoir of Washington. It may be a convenience to the reader of this little book to have here collected the dates as to the leading events of his life.—He was born at Bridges Creek, Westmoreland county, Virginia, Feb. 22, 1732; and died suddenly, after an illness of one day by an inflammation of the windpipe, Dec. 14, 1799, nearly 68 years old. He was in early life a major and colonel of the Virginia troops employed against the French on the Ohio in 1754 and 1755; and was subsequently commander in chief. About 1758 he married Mrs. Custis, a wealthy widow, whom he greatly loved. As a planter he had 9,000 acres of land under his management, and nearly 1,000 slaves in his employment, living at Mount Vernon, which was the estate of his deceased older brother Lawrence: his father's name was Augustine: his great grandfather came from the north of England about 1657.—He was appointed by congress commander in chief at the commencement of the war in 1775; and at the close resigned his commission Dec. 1783.
In 1789 he was chosen the first president of the United States for 4 years and then re-chosen, continuing in office till 1797, when he was succeeded by John Adams. By his last will he directed, that on the death of Mrs. Washington (who died May 22, 1802,) his slaves should be emancipated. As the ladies of Virginia, with the aid of ladies of other States, have purchased Mount Vernon in reverence to the name of Washington, will they not honor him if they manage it without obtruding upon it any slave labor?—Gen. Washington was a constant attendant on public worship in an episcopal church, which he principally supported. It is believed, that he every day had his hour of retirement for private devotion.
[Sonnet 2.] In looking from my eastern window a few evenings since (Dec. 12th,) I was struck with the magnificent appearance of the heavens,—the moon just rising in full effulgence, preceded a few degrees by the splendid planet Jupiter, while still higher and more at the south was the unequalled constellation Orion, with an uncounted multitude of stars planted thick in the sky. Jupiter is 1400 times larger than the earth, being 90,000 miles in diameter: he revolves on his axis in ten hours, so that a body on his surface flies around at the rate of 27,000 miles per hour, or 27 times faster than a body on the earth. It has four satellites. Can it be imagined, that this huge planet is not furnished with rational inhabitants, like this diminutive earth? And what reason can be assigned why all the planets and all the stars should not be inhabited by rational beings? Who can fix the limits to God's creation? As light flies 192,000 miles every second, who can say, that the light from the most distant star has yet reached the earth since the star was created? With what reverence and awe, with what love and trust and spirit of obedience should Almighty God, the Creator of the universe, be regarded?
[Sonnet 3.] Wm. H. Prescott, the distinguished historian, died at Boston of the paralysis after a few hours' illness Jan. 28, 1859, aged 62 years. Knowing that he was about to die, it was his remarkable request, that in his coffin he might lie for a time with his face uncovered in his library, surrounded by his cherished Books. From his library he was carried to his grave Jan. 31st. The next evening the Historical Society of Massachusetts held a meeting in honor of his memory. Mr. Winthrop, the president, Mr. Ticknor who introduced some resolutions, and others made speeches on the occasion, which were published. As a humble associate member of the society I would not neglect to mention the following apposite and interesting fact, that Petrarch, the inventor of the Italian sonetto, was found dead in his library with his head resting on a book. He died of apoplexy July 18, 1374, aged 74.—Milton's memorable words in relation to books ought never to be forgotten:—"Many a man lives a burden to the earth; but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, imbalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life."—But the book of books is God's Book, which infinitely transcends all others in value, except as they borrow truth from its pages, for it reveals to man his pathway to a blessed immortality. Never should the words of Mr. Chillingworth be forgotten: "The Bible, I say, the Bible only is the Religion of Protestants."
[Sonnet 4.] In the city of Paris, ten years ago, I was one of a large company of hundreds of the Friends of Peace from different nations. We presented to the Emperor,—then only a President,—an Address against War. In the present year by his inroad into Italy and conflict with Austria he has fixed upon his soul the unmeasurable guilt of several tens of thousands of murders.
[Sonnet 5.] After the existence of one God there is no truth so astonishing and holding such a power over the human heart, as the death of the Son of God on the cross for the sins of men. For who was the Son of God? He was indeed in the form of a man, born of the virgin Mary; but he came down from heaven to tabernacle in human flesh. Let us raise our eyes from the earth to the worlds above us, of enormous magnitude compared with this little globe of ours. Suppose now the glorious sun is inhabited by a race of intelligent beings as much exalted above man, as the sun is greater and more resplendent than the earth. If the highest of the sun's inhabitants had come to this low world and dwelt in human flesh—it might have been a most amazing event in our eyes; yet he would not have been the Son of God. Suppose among the countless worlds of light there is one world vastly transcending all others and the dwellers on it transcending in their faculties and endowments all other world-dwellers; and the first among them had come to dwell in man's form; yet he would not have been the Son of God. We read of angels and archangels in heaven—in the place of God's more especial abode. Suppose the brightest archangel had descended to this ball of earth and animated a human form, and appeared as a man; yet he would not have been the Son of God. For the Son of God is he, by whom God created the sun and moon and stars of light, with all the intelligent dwellers upon them and the dwellers in the heavenly mansions. It was this Son of God inconceivably exalted and glorious, who came down from heaven and appeared as the Son of Mary. And not only so; but he actually was subject to the evils, which man suffers; he could feel pain, and anguish, and the agonies of the cross,—and did encounter them,—if the plain language of scripture is no delusion,—in order to atone for our sins and to achieve the work of our redemption. Now, did we believe this: did this most sublime and wonderful truth plant itself in our inmost persuasion,—unalloyed and unweakened or not destroyed in its influence by any of our speculative theories;—were we deeply and thoroughly convinced of this great fact;—then who of us could fail to exclaim,—"God forbid, that I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom the world is crucified unto me and I unto the world?"
[Sonnet 10.] John Tyndale, born in 1484, and educated at Oxford. Determined to translate the Bible for England, as he could not do it safely in London he fled to the continent. At Cologne he published the English New Testament about 1525. England was filled with light. The popish priests sent over a traitor, by whose means Tyndale was seized and martyred near Antwerp Friday, Oct. 6, 1536, being strangled at the stake and burnt. His translation of the New Testament was the foundation of our present one.
[Sonnet 13.] The four following ex-presidents were all living, when this sonnet was written in March, 1826.—John Adams died July 4, 1826, aged 90; president from 1797 to 1801.—Thomas Jefferson died on the same day with Mr. Adams, July 4, 1826, aged 83; president from 1801 to 1809. As a member of congress he drew up the declaration of Independence in 1776.—James Madison died in 1836, aged 85; president from 1809 to 1817.—James Monroe died July 4, 1831, aged 83; president from 1817 to 1825.
[Sonnet 16.] In a sonnet Mr. Wordsworth does not lament the protestant hurricane, which scattered wide