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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.
TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD.
DEATH-BED OF BOMBA, KING OF
AT BARI, 1859.
Take back into thy bosom, earth,
This joyous, May-eyed morrow,
Gave to be reared by sorrow!
Through vernal bowers are burning,
To Summer's face returning -
Shall nevermore be lighter,
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
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
And grace of golden nature, -
Lurked the keen jags of anguish ;
Their poison made it languish.
Of his own mournful singing,
While most the thorn was stinging.
So never to the desert-worn
Did fount bring freshness deeper
Has brought the shrouded sleeper.
Where charnels choke the city,
The wren shall wake its ditty ;
Is dear to hearts regretting,
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
Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore, MACAULAY.
Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
“ 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
Summer, but under them still
In September's bright afternoon
Shadow and verdure and cool !
Trim Montmartre ! the faint
Murmur of Paris outside ;
Yellow and black on the graves.
Half blind, palsied, in pain,
Uproar, surely not loath
Wast thou, Heine, – to lie
Quiet ! to ask for closed
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
Under the wings of Renown.
Ah ! not little, when pain
Is most quelling, and man Above the applauded circus, in appliance
Easily quelled, and the fine
Quickest to ill, is the praise
His bolt-scathed front to the stars,
'Gainst thick-crashing, insane,
Tyrannous tempests of bale,
Arrowy lightnings of soul !
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.
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
Or, yet later, in watch
Pours her petulant youth, -
But something prompts me : Not thus
The spirit of the world,
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,
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,
Listened in every spray',
While the whole camp, with “Nell," on English
Wandered and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken
As by some spell divine -
Their cares dropped from them like the needles
From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire ;
And he who wrought that spell ?--
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell !
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths intwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,
This spray of Western pine.
TO VICTOR HUGO.
Victor in poesy! Victor in romance !
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.
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.
. And then, while round them shadows gathered
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, --
A silence seemed to fall :
FROM "DON JUAN".
Who passes for in life and death most lucky,