‘His life was gentle; and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, _This was a man!_’
But who can estimate his country’s loss? What tongue portray the desolation which in this hour throughout this broad land hangs like a gloomy pall over his grief-stricken countrymen? How poorly can words like mine translate the eloquence of a whole people’s grief for a patriot’s death. For a nation’s loss let a nation mourn. For that stupendous calamity to our country and mankind, be the heavens hung with black; let the wailing elements chant his dirge, and the universal heart of man throb with one common pang of grief and anguish.
Mr. CASKIE said: Mr. Speaker, Unwell as I am, I must try to lay a single laurel leaf in that open coffin, which is already garlanded by the eloquent tributes to the illustrious departed, which have been heard in this now solemn hall; for I come, sir, from the district of his birth. I represent on this floor that old Hanover so proud of her Henrys――her Patrick Henry and her Henry Clay. I speak for a people among whom he has always had as earnest and devoted friends as were ever the grace and glory of a patriot and statesman.
I shall attempt no sketch of his life. That you have had from other and abler hands than mine. Till yesterday that life was, of his own free gift, the property of his country; to-day it belongs to her history. It is known to all, and will not be forgotten. Constant, stern opponent of his political school as has been my state, I say for her, that no where in this broad land are his great qualities more admired, or his death more mourned, than in Virginia. Well may this be so; for she is his mother, and he was her son.
Mr. Speaker, when I remember the party strifes in which he was so much mingled, and through which we all more or less have passed, and then survey this scene, and think how far, as the lightning has borne the news that he is gone, half-masted flags are drooping and church-bells are tolling, and men are sorrowing, I can but feel that it is good for man to die. For when death enters, O! how the unkindnesses, and jealousies, and rivalries of life do vanish, and how like incense from an altar do peace, and friendship, and all the sweet charities of our nature, rise around the corpse which was once a man! And of a truth, Mr. Speaker, never was more of veritable noble _manhood_ cased in mortal mould than was found in him to whose memory this brief and humble, but true and heartfelt tribute is paid. But his eloquent voice is hushed, his high heart is stilled. ‘Like a shock of corn fully ripe, he has been gathered to his fathers.’ With more than three score years and ten upon him, and honors clustered thick about him, in the full possession of unclouded intellect, and all the consolations of Christianity, he has met the fate which is evitable by none. Lamented by all his countrymen, his name is bright on fame’s immortal roll. He has finished his course, and he has his crown. What more fruit can life bear? What can it give that Henry Clay has not gained?