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over law and form, to teach all majesty, in the wild school of liberty, and to glorify in spite the worm that fattens on the greatness that oppressed us. Not in the outer world—in the unsatisfactory treaty—in the heedless aggression, of themselves considered, shall we seek the motives of this turbulence; it comes from the reproach of the genius within.—Behold the tumultuous fray! hear the voices of the captains and the shouting, the neighing steed whose neck is clothed with thunder, the bickering steel, the banners flapping in the wind! From the turrets of yonder city the eyes that shall be weeping look down in exultation at the courage of such flesh as they are. Is it for right that struggles beneath the heel of oppression—is it for the gaze of streets-full of heads which shall greet his triumphal entry,—is it for tears that shall dampen his valor's grave, made holy land forever, that yon pale madman in the smoke of war's exploding thunders chides on the war-horse with his barbed heels to bound over the dying, though it be to die? No—it is a poet this—a self- consumer; he seeks the ancient joy—to have looked death in the face, and felt he never shall be daunted more. Labor is nothing, nor poverty, nor pain, nor loss of friends or kindred to his eye who ever triumphed over a field of battle, or held the dying hero with his face against the foe. The world is his, and it was made for him—the valley green, the waving plain, and the far, dim steeps whose weird abnormity shall catch peace from his presence.

There is a liberty of Alexander, when he has conquered the world; but the liberty we seek is the liberty