The child repeats it with a dim consciousness of some great woe; it knows not, to its full extent, the burden of the words it utters.

The youth passes along the solemn sentence; there is a throb in his energetic heart, for he has seen the enfeebled form of the statesman as it glided among the multitude, and has heard his voice raised for his country's good; he is assured that the heart that has ceased to beat glowed with all that was great and noble.
The politician utters, too, the oft-repeated sound--Henry Clay is dead! Well may he bare his breast and say, for _what_ is my voice raised where his has been heard?
Is it for my country, or for my party and myself?
Men of business and mechanics in the land, they know that one who ever defended their interests is gone, and who shall take his place?
The mother--tears burst from her eyes, when looking into her child's face, she says, Henry Clay is dead! for a nation's freedom is woman's incalculable blessing.

She thinks with grief and gratitude of him who never ceased to contend for that which gives to her, social and religious rights.
Henry Clay is dead! His body no longer animated with life; his spirit gone to God.

How like a torrent thought rushes on, in swift review, of his wonderful and glorious career.

His gifted youth, what if it were attended with the errors that almost invariably accompany genius like his! Has he in the wide world an enemy who can bring aught against him?
Look at his patriotism, his benevolence, his noble acts.