tion which followed upon my writing
Certain Treatises, II_. MILTON.

The traitor to Humanity is the traitor most accursed;
Man is more than Constitutions; better rot beneath the sod,
Than be true to Church and State while we are doubly false to God.
_On the Capture of Certain Fugitive Slaves near Washington_. J.R.
LOWELL.

The sword may pierce the beaver,
Stone walls in time may sever;
'T is mind alone,
Worth steel and stone,
That keeps men free forever.
_O, the sight entrancing_. T. MOORE.

Here the free spirit of mankind, at length,
Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place
A limit to the giant's unchained strength,
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
_The Ages_. W.C. BRYANT.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm _against_ the wind.
_Childe Harold, Canto IV_. LORD BYRON.

Freedom needs all her poets; it is they
Who give her aspirations wings,
And to the wiser law of music sway
Her wild imaginings.
_To the Memory of Hood_. J.R. LOWELL.

Free soil, free men, free speech, free press,
Fremont and victory!
_Chorus: Republican Campaign Song_, 1856.
R.R. RAYMOND.

FRIENDSHIP.

A ruddy drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs;
The world uncertain comes and goes,
The lover rooted stays.
_Epigraph to friendship_. R.W. EMERSON.

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweet'ner of life! and solder of society!
_The Grave_. R. BLAIR.

Friendship is the cement of two minds,
As of one man the soul and body is;
Of which one cannot sever but the other
Suffers a needful separation.
_Revenge_. G. CHAPMAN.

A friendship that like love is warm,
A love like friendship steady.
_How Shall I Woo_? T. MOORE.

Friendship's the image of
Eternity, in which there's nothing
Movable, nothing mischievous.
_Endymion_. J. LILLY.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O the Joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!
_Youth and Age_. S.T. COLERIDGE.

'T is sweet, as year by year we lose
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse
How grows in Paradise our store.
_Burial of the Dead_. J. KEBLE.

I praise the Frenchman,[A] his remark was shrewd,
How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude!
But grant me still a friend in my re