Glorious New England! thou art still time to thy ancient fame, and worthy
of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, have assembled in this
far-distant land to celebrate thy birthday. A thousand fond associations
throng upon us, roused by the spirit of the hour. On thy pleasant valleys
rest, like sweet dews of morning, the gentle recollections of our early
life; around thy hills and mountains cling, like gathering mists, the
mighty memories of the Revolution; and, far away in the horizon of thy
past, gleam, like thy own bright northern lights, the awful virtues of our
Pilgrim Sires!

But while we devote this day to the remembrance of our native land, we
forget not that in which our happy lot is cast. We exult in the reflection,
that though we count by thousands the miles which separate us from our
birthplace, still our country is the same. We are no exiles, meeting upon
the banks of a foreign river to swell its waters with our homesick tears.
Here floats the same banner which rustled above our boyish heads, except
that its mighty folds are wider, and its glittering stars increased in
number.

The sons of New England are found in every State of the broad Republic. In
the East, the South, and the unbounded West, their blood mingles freely
with every kindred current. We have but changed our chamber in the paternal
mansion; in all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit it are our
brothers. To us the Union has but one domestic hearth; its household gods
are all the same. Upon us then peculiarly devolves the duty of feeding the
fires upon that kindly hearth, of guarding with pious care those sacred
household gods.

We cannot do with less than the whole Union; to us it admits of no
division. In the veins of our children flows Northern and Southern blood.