freedom sealed;
We'll praise Him for the sheaves of gold
Now on the battle-field.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Naseby, June 14, 1646.

[Illustration: Z. Taylor [From a Daguerreotype by BRADY.]]

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE LATE PRESIDENT.

Who has not heard of the opening words with which the court preacher
Massilon startled the titled throng who had gathered in Notre Dame to do
the last honors to that monarch whose reign was the longest and most
splendid in French annals, "_God only is great!_" How often does the
knell of vanished power repeat the lesson! How constantly does the
fleeting away of our own men of might teach us that

The paths of glory lead but to the grave!

Death has again asserted his supremacy by striking down the most exalted
ruler of the land. The last sad cadence, dust to dust, his just been
faltered aver one who was our country's pride, and joy, and strength.
The love, the gratitude, and the veneration of a nation could not save
him. The crying need of an imperiled republic could not reprieve him.
His mortal strife over, his appointed task finished, he went down into
the cold embrace of the grave, and there, like a warrior taking his
rest, he lies and will lie forever. But he has left behind him what can
not die, the memory of noble aims and heroic deeds. The plain story of
his life is his best eulogy.

ZACHARY TAYLOR was born in Orange County Virginia, in November, 1784. He
was the second son of Col. Richard Taylor, whose ancestors emigrated
from England about two centuries ago, and settled in Eastern Virginia.
The father, distinguished alike for patriotism and valor, served as
colonel in the revolutionary war, and took part in many important
engagements. About 1790 he left his Virginian farm and emigrated with
his family to Kentucky. He settled in the "dark and bloody ground," and
for years encountered all the trials then incident to border life. The
earliest impressions of young Zachary were the sudden foray of the
savage foe, the piercing warwhoop, the answering cry of defiance, the
gleam of the tomahawk, the crack of the rifle, the homestead saved by
his father's daring, the neighboring cottage wrapped in flames, or its
hearth-stone red with blood. Such scenes bound his young nerves with
iron, and fired his fresh soul with martial ardor; working upon his
superior nature they made arms his delight, and heroism his destiny.
Zachary was placed in school at an early age, and