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( miserable chieftain ! where and when

So he pleads excuses eager, clutching, with his Wilt thou find patience! Yet die not; do fingers ineagre, at the bedclothes as he thou

speaks ; Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : But King Death sits grimly grinning at the Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,

Bourbon's cobweb-spinning, -- as each cobLive and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 1 web-cable breaks. Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and And the poor soul, from life's eylot, rudderless, skies:

without a pilot, drifteth slowly down the There's not a breathing of the common wind

dark ; That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; While mid rolling ir.cense vapor, chanted dirge, Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

and faring taper, lies the body, stiff and And love, and man's unconquerable mind.

stark.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

PUNCH.

TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD.

DEATH-BED OF BOMBA, KING OF

NAPLES,

AT BARI, 1859.

Take back into thy bosom, earth,

This joyous, May-eyed morrow,
The gentlest child that ever inirth

Gave to be reared by sorrow!
'T is hard — while rays half green, half gold,

Through vernal bowers are burning,
And streams their diamond mirrors hold

To Summer's face returning -
To say we're thankful that his sleep

Shall nevermore be lighter,
In whose sweet-tongued companionship

Stream, bower, and beam grow brighter !

Could I pass those lounging sentries, through

the aloe-bordered entries, up the sweep of

squalid stairs On through chamber after chamber, where the

sunshine's gold and amber turu decay to

beauty rare, I should reach a guarded portal, where for strife

of issue mortal, face to face two kings are

met : One the grisly King of Terrors ; one a Bourbon,

with his errors, late to conscience-clearing

set. Well his fevered pulse may flutter, and the priests

their nass may mutter with such fervor as

they may : Cross and chrism, and genuflection, mop and

mow, and interjection, will not frighten

Death away.
By the dying despot sitting, at the hard heart's

portals hitting, shocking the dull brain to

work, Death makes clear what life has hidden, chides

what life has left unchidden, quickens truth

life tried to burke. He but ruled within his borders after Holy

Church's orders, did what Austria bade him!

But all the more intensely true

His soul gave out each feature
Of elemental love, — each hue

And grace of golden nature, -
The deeper still beneath it all

Lurked the keen jags of anguish ;
The more the laurels clasped his brow

Their poison made it languish.
Seemed it that, like the nightingale

Of his own mournful singing,
The tenderer would his song prevail

While most the thorn was stinging.

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So never to the desert-worn

Did fount bring freshness deeper
Than that his placid rest this morn

Has brought the shrouded sleeper.
That rest may lap his weary head

Where charnels choke the city,
Or where, mid woodlands, by his bed

The wren shall wake its ditty ;
But near or far, while evening's star

Is dear to hearts regretting,
Around that spot admiring thought
Shall hover, unforgetting.

BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS

A VOICE, AND NOTHING ELSE. Ah, vain denial ! that revolted cry

Is sobbed in by a woman's voice forlorn ; "I WONDER if Brougham thinks as much as he Thy woman's hair, my sister, all unshorn, talks,”

Floats back dishevelled strength in agony, Said a punster, perusing a trial :

Disproving thy man's name ; and while before " | vow, since his lordship was made Baron | The world thou burnest in a poet-fire, Vaux,

We see thy woman-heart beat evermore He's been Vaux et præteret nihil!"

Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and ANONYMOUS

higher,

Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore, MACAULAY.

Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
The dreamy rhymer's measured snoro
Falls heavy on our ears no more ;
Ind by long strides are left behind

HEINE'S GRAVE.
The dear delights of womankind,
Who wage their battles like their loves,

“ HENRI HEINE” - 't is here !

The black tombstone, the name Tu satin waistcoats and kid gloves,

Carved there — no more! and the smoothi And have achieved the crowning work When they have trussed and skewered a Turk.

Swarded alleys, the limes

Touched with yellow by hot
Another comes with stouter tread,

Summer, but under them still
And stalks among the statelier dead.
He rushes on, and hails by turns

In September's bright afternoon

Shadow and verdure and cool !
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns ;

Trim Montmartre ! the faint
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,

Murmur of Paris outside ;
When all the Tuscans and their Lars

Crisp everlasting-flowers,
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.

Yellow and black on the graves.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Half blind, palsied, in pain,
· Hither to come, from the streets'

Uproar, surely not loath
SONNETS TO GEORGE SAND.

Wast thou, Heine, – to lie

Quiet ! to ask for closed
A DESIRE.

Shutters, and darkened room, Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted And cool drinks, and an eased man,

Posture, and opium, no more ! Self-called George Sand! whose soul amid the

Hither to come, and to sleep
lions

Under the wings of Renown.
Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance,
And answers roar for roar, as spirits can,

Ah ! not little, when pain
I would some mild miraculous thunder ran

Is most quelling, and man Above the applauded circus, in appliance

Easily quelled, and the fine
Of thine own nobler nature's strength and sci Temper of genius alive
ence,

Quickest to ill, is the praise
Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan, Not to have yielded to pain !
From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place No small boast for a weak
With holier light! that thou to woman's claim, Son of mankind, to the earth
And man's, might join beside the angel's grace Pinned by the thunder, to rear
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame;

His bolt-scathed front to the stars,
Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace, And, undaunted, retort
To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.

'Gainst thick-crashing, insane,

Tyrannous tempests of bale,
A RECOGNITION.

Arrowy lightnings of soul !
TRUE genius, but true woman ! dost deny

Hark! through the alley resounds Thy woman's nature with a manly scorn,

Mocking laughter ! A film And break away the gauds and armlets worn

Creeps o'er the sunshine ; a breeze By weaker women in captivity ?

Ruffles the warm afternoon,

Saddens my soul with its chill.
Gibing of spirits in scorn
Shakes every leaf of the grove,
Mars the benignant repose
Of this amiable home of the dead.
Bitter spirits ! ye claim
Heine ? --- Alas, he is yours !
Only a moment I longed
Here in the quiet to snatch
From such mates the outworn
Poet, and steep him in calm.
Only a moment ! I knew
Whose he was who is here
Buried ; I knew he was yours'
Ah, I knew that I saw
Here no sepulchre built
In the laurelled rock, p'er the Jue
Naples bay, for a sweet
Tender Virgil ! no tcmb
On Ravenna sands, in the shade
Of Ravenna pines, for a high
Austere Dante ! no grave
By the Avon side, in the bright
Stratford meadows, for thee,
Shakespeare ! loveliest of souls,
Peerless in radiance, in joy.

Ah ! as of old from the pomp Of Italian Milan, the fair Flower of marble of white Southern palaces, -- steps Bordered by statues, and walks Terraced, and orange bowers Heavy with fragrance, – the blond German Kaiser full oft Longed himself back to the fields, Rivers, and high-roofed towns Of his native Germany ; so, So, how often ! from hot Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps Blazing, and brilliant crowds, Starred and jewelled, of men Famous, of women the queens Of dazzling converse, and fumes Of praise, - hot, heady fumes, to the poor brair That mount, that madden !-- how oft Heine's spirit, outworn, Longed itself out of the din Back to the tranquil, the cool, Far German home of his youth ! See ! in the May afternoon, O'er the fresh short turf of the Hartz, A youth, with the foot of youth, Heine ! thou climbest again. Up, through the tall dark firs Warming their heads in the sun, Checkering the grass with their shade, Up, by the stream with its huge Moss-hung bowlders and thin Musical water half-bid, Up o'er the rock-strewn slope, With the sinking sun, and the air Chill, and the shadows now Long on the gray hillside, To the stone-roofed hut at the top.

What so harsh and malign, Heine ! distils from thy life, Poisons the peace of thy grave ?

Charm is the glory which makes
Song of the poet divine ;
Love is the fountain of charm.
How without charm wilt thou draw,
Poet, the world to thy way?
Not by the lightnings of wit,
Not by the thunder of scorn !
These to the world, too, are given ;
Wit it possesses, and scorn, -
Charm is the poet's alone.
Hollow and dull are the great,
And artists envious, and the mob profane.
We know all this, we know !
Cam'st thou from heaven, O) child
Of light! but this to declare ?
Alas! to help us forget
Such barren knowledge awhile,
God gave the poet his song.
Therefore a secret unrest
Tortured thee, brilliant and bold !
Therefore triumph itself
Tasted amiss to thy soul.
Therefore, with blood of thy foes,
Trickled in silence thine own.
Therefore the victor's heart
Broke on the field of his fame.

Or, yet later, in watch
On the roof of the Brocken tower
Thou standest, gazing! to see
The broad red sun, over field,
Forest and city and spire
And mist-tracked stream of the wide,
Wide German land, going down
In a bank of vapors, - again
Standest ! at nightfall, alone ;
Or, next morning, with limbs
Rested by slumber, and heart
Freshened and light with the May,
('er the gracious spurs coming down
Of the lower Hartz, among oaks,
And beechen coverts, and copse
Of hazels green in whose depth
Ilse, the fairy transformed,
In a thonyond water-breaks light

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Pours her petulant youth, -
Climbing the rock which juts
O'er the valley, the dizzily perched
Rock ! to its Iron Cross
Once more thou cling'st ; to the Cross
Clingest! with smiles, with a sigh.

But something prompts me : Not thus
Take leave of Heine, not thus
Speak the last word at his grave!
Not in pity, and not
With half-censure, — with awe
Hail, as it passes from earth,
Scattering lightnings, that soul !

The spirit of the world,
Beholding the absurdity of men, -
Their vaunts, their feats, – let a sardonic smile
For one short moment wander o'er his lips.
That smile was Heine! for its earthly hour
The strange guest sparkled; now ’t is passed away.
That was Heine ! and we,
Myriauls who live, who have lived,
What are we all, but a mood,
A single mood, of the life
Of the Being in whom we exist,
Who alone is all things in one.
Spirit, who fillest us all !
Spirit, who utterest in each
New-coming son of mankind
Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt!
O thou, one of whose moods,
Bitter and strange, was the life
of Heine, — his strange, alas !
His bitter life, - may a life
Other and milder be mine!
Mayst thou a mood more serene,
Happier, have uttered in mine!
Mayst thou the rapture of peace
Deep have embreathed at its core !
Made it a ray of thy thought,
Made it a beat of thy joy!

Wishing, as we turned them o'er, Like poor Oliver, for “more,” And the creatures of thy brain In our memory remain, Till through them we seem to be Old acquaintances of thee. Much we hold it thee to greet, Gladly sit we at thy feet; On thy features we would look, As upon a living book, And thy voice would grateful hear, Glad to feel that Boz were near, That his veritable soul Held us by direct control : Therefore, author loved the best. Welcome, welcome to the West. In immortal Weller's name, By the rare Micawber's fame, By the flogging wreaked on Squeers, By Job Trotter's fluent tears, By the beadle Bumble's fate At the hands of shrewish mate, By the famous Pickwick Club, By the dream of Gabriel Grubb, In the name of Snodgrass' muse, Tupman's amorous interviews, Winkle's ludicrous mishaps, And the fat boy's countless naps ; By Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer, By Miss Sally Brass, the lawyer, In the name of Newman Noggs, River Thames, and London fogs, Richard Swiveller's excess, Feasting with the Marchioness, By Jack Bunshy's oracles, By the chime of Christmas bells, By the cricket on the hearth, By the sound of childish mirth, By spread tables and good cheer. Wayside inns and pots of beer, Hostess plump and jolly host, Coaches for the turnpike post, Chambermaid in love with Boots, Toodles, Traddles, Tapley, Toots, Betsey Trotwood, Mister Dick, Susan Nipper, Mistress Chick, Snevellicci, Lilyvick, Mantalini's predilections To transfer his warm affections, By poor Barnaby and Grip, Flora, Dora, Di, and Gip, Peerybingle, Pinch, and Pip, – Welcome, loug-expected guest, Welcome to the grateful West. In the name of gentle Nell, Child of light, beloved well,

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

A WELCOME TO “BOZ."

ON HIS FIRST VISIT TO THE WEST COME as artist, come as guest, Welcome to the expectant West, Hero of the charmed pen, Loved of children, loved of men. We have felt thy spell for years ; Oft with laughter, oft with tears, Thou hast touched the tenderest part Of our inmost, hidden heart. We have fixed our eager gaze On thy pages nights and days,

Weeping, did we not behold

The fir trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Roses on her bosom cold?

Listened in every spray',
Better we for every tear

While the whole camp, with “Nell," on English
Shed beside her snowy bier, —

meadows
By the mournful group that played

Wandered and lost their way.
Round the grave where Smike was laid.
By the life of Tiny Tim,

And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken
And the lesson taught by him,

As by some spell divine -
Asking in his plaintive tone

Their cares dropped from them like the needles
God to “ bless us every one,

shaken
By the sounding waves that bore

From out the gusty pine.
Little Paul to Heaven's shore,

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire ;
By thy yearning for the human
Good in every man and woman,

And he who wrought that spell ?--
By each noble deed and word

Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
That thy story-books record,

Ye have one tale to tell !
And each noble sentimeut

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Dickens to the world hath lent,

Blend with the breath that thrills
By the effort thou hast made

With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory
Truth and true reform to aid,

That fills the Kentish hills.
By thy hope of man's relief
Finally from want and grief,

And on that grave where English oak and holly
By thy never-failing trust

And laurel wreaths intwine,
That the God of love is just, —

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,
We woulil meet and welcome thee,

This spray of Western pine.
Preacher of humanity :
Welcome fills the throbbing breast
Of the sympathetic West.
W. H. VENABLE.

TO VICTOR HUGO.

Victor in poesy! Victor in romance !
DICKENS IN CAMP.

Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears !

French of the French and lord of human ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

tears! The river sang below ;

Child-lover, bard, whose fame-lit laurels glance, The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Darkening the wreaths of all that would adTheir minarets of snow.

vance

Beyond our strait their claim to be thy peers! The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted

| Weird Titan, by thy wintry weight of years The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 1

As yet unbroken! Stormy voice of France,

Who does not love our England, so they say ; In the fierce race for wealth ;

I know not ! England, France, all men to be, Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure: Will make one people, ere man's jace be A hoarded volume drew,

run ; And cards were dropped from hands of listless And I, desiring that diviner day, leisure,

Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy To hear the tale anew ;

To younger England in the boy, my son.

BRET HARTE,

ALFRED TENNYSON.

. And then, while round them shadows gathered

faster,

And as the firelight fell, lle read aloud the book wherein the Master

Had writ of " Little Nell."

Perhaps 't was boyish fancy, — for the reader

Was youngest of them all, --
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar

A silence seemed to fall :

DANIEL BOONE.

FROM "DON JUAN".
Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer,

Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
of the great names which in our faces stare,
The General Boone, backwoodsman of Ken-

tucky,

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