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To confront his Portrait for The Wound Dresser" in " Leaves of Grass."

Out from behind this bending, rough-cut

mask, These lights and shades, this drama of

the whole, This common curtain of the face, con

tain'd in me for me, in you for you,

in each for each. (Tragedies, sorrow's, laughter, tears - 0

heaven! The passionate teeming plays this curtain

hid !) This glaze of God's serenest, purest sky, This film of Satan's seething pit, This heari's geography's map, this limit

less small continent, this soundless

sea; Out from the convolutions of this globe, This subtler astronomic orb than sun or

moon, than Jupiter, Venus, Mars, This condensation of the universe (nay,

here the only universe, Here the idea, all in this mystic handful

wrapt);

These burin'd eyes, flashing to you, to

pass to future time, To launch and spin through space,

revolving, sideling, from these to

emanate To you — whoe'er you are — a look. A traveler of thoughts and years, of peace

and war, Of youth long sped and middling age deO

clining (As the first volume of a tale perused

and laid away, and this the second, Songs, ventures, speculations, presently

to close), Lingering a moment here and now, to

you I opposite turn, As on the road, or at some crevice door

by chance, or open'd window, Pausing, inclining, baring my head, you

specially I greet, To draw and clinch your soul for once

inseparably with mine, Then travel, travel on.

WALT WHITMAN.

Here was a type of the true elder race, My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face Noting how to occasion's height he rose; to face.

How his quaint wit made home-truth sooni more I praise him not; it were too late ;

true; And some innative weakness there must be How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows. In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, | How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be ; Safe in himself as in a fate.

How, in good fortune and in ill, the same ; So always firmly he :

Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, He knew to bide his time,

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, He went about his work, --- such work as few Till the wise years decide.

Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, Great captains, with their guns and drums, As one who knows, where there's a task to do, Disturb our judgment for the hour,

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace But at last silence comes ;

con mand ; These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame,

Who trusts the strength will with the burden The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,

grow, Sagacious, patiert, dreading praise, not blame, That God makes instruments to work his will, New birth of our new soil, the first American. If but that will we can arrive to know,

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle, on the side

That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, ABRAHAM LINCOLN.*

As in his peasant boyhood he had plied

His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting FOULLY ASSASSINATED APRIL 14, 1865.

mights ; You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier,

You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, | The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, I The iron-bark, that turns the lumberer's axe, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil,

The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,

Such were the deeds that helped his youth to His lack of all we prize as debonair,

train : Of power or will to shine, of art to please ; Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may

bear, You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

laugh, Judging each step as though the way were

So he grew up, a destined work to do, plain,

And lived to do it: four long-suffering years' Reckless, so it could point its paragraph

1 [ll-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain :

And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,

| The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, Between the mourners at his head and feet,

And took both with the same unwavering mood; Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you? Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,

And seemed to touch the goal from where he Yes : he had lived to shame me from my sneer,

stood, To lame my pencil, and confute my pen ; To make me own this hind of princes peer,

| A felon hand, between the goal and him, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.

1 Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, The words of mercy were upon his lips, | Whatever can be known of earth we know,

| And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, • This tribute appeared in the London Punch, which, up to Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to the time of the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, had ridiculed and pallgned him with all its well-known powers of pen and pencil.

rest!

Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, Sneered Europe's wise men, in their snail. When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse

shells curled ; To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men. No ! said one man in Geroa, and that No

Out of the dark created this New World. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,

Utter one voice of sympathy and shame : Who is it will not dare himself to trust? Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high ;! Who is it hath not strength to stand alone? Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came! Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward Must?

He and his works, like sand, from earth are A deed accurst ! Strokes have been struck before blown.

By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore ;

Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here ! But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly See one straightforward conscience put in pawn out.

To win a world ; see the obedient sphere

By bravery's simple gravitation drawn !
Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
Whate'erits grounds, stoutly and nobly striven ; |

Shall we not heeld the lesson taught of old,
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life

And by the Present's lips repeated still,
With much to praise, little to be forgiven.

In our own single manhood to be bold,
TOM TAYLOR

Fortressed in conscience and impregnable will ?
We striile the river daily at its spring,

Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness, foresee WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.

What myriad vassal streams shall tribute bring,

| How like an equal it shall greet the sea. "Some time afterward, it was reported to ine by the city officers that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor ; that his office was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his O small beginnings, ye are great and strong, supporters a few very insignificant persons of all colors.” – Letter of Based on a faithful heart and weariless brain ! H. G. OTIS.

Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong, In a small chamber, friendless and unseen, Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in vain. Toiled o'er his types one poor, urlearned young

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. man ; The place was dark, unfurnitured, and mean : Yet there the freedom of a race began.

THE OLD ADMIRAL.

ADMIRAL STEWART, U. S. NAVY.
Help came but slowly ; surely no man yet
Put lever to the heavy world with less :

GONE at last,
What need of help? He knew how types were set,

That brave old hero of the past ! He had a dauntless spirit, and a press.

His spirit has a second birth,

An unknown, grander life ; Such earnest natures are the fiery pith,

All of him that was earth The compact nucleus, round which systems Lies mute and cold, grow :

Like a wrinkled sheath and old, Mass after mass becomes inspired therewith, Thrown off forever from the shimmering blade And whirls impregnate with the central glow. . That has good entrance inade

! Upon some distant, glorious strife. () Truth ! ( Freedom! how are ye still born

In the rude stable, in the manger nursed! From another generation, What humble hands un bar those gates of morn A simpler age, to our's Old Ironsides came; Through which the splendors of the New Day The morn and noontide of the nation burst !

! Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame,

O, not outlived his fame! What! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his. The dauntless men whose service guards our shore cell,

Lengthen still their glory-roll Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn her; With his name to lead the scroll, frown?

As a flagship at her fore Brave Luther answered Yes ; that thunder's swell (arries the Union, with its azure and the stars, Rocked Europe, and discharmed the triple Symbol of times that are no more

| And the old heroic wars.

crown.

He was the one

Earth to earth his dust is laid. Whom Death had spared alone

Methinks his stately shade Of all the captains of that lusty age,

On the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore; Who sought the foeman where he lay,

Over cloudless western seas On sea or sheltering bay,

Seeks the far Hesperides, Yor till the prize was theirs repressed their The islands of the blest, rage.

Where no turbulent billows roar, -They are gone, --- all gone :

Where is rest. They rest with glory and the undying Powers; His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands Only their name and fame, and what they Nearing the deathless lands. saved, are ours !

There all his martial mates, renewed and

strong, It was fifty years ago,

Await his coming long. Upon the Gallic Sea,

I see the happy Heroes rise He bore the banner of the free,

With gratulation in their eyes : And fought the fight whereof our children “Welcome, old comrade," Lawrence cries; know, —

“Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars ! The deathful, desperate fight!

Who win the glory and the scars? Under the fair moon's light

How floats the skyey flag, – how many The frigate squared, and yawed to left and right. stars?

Every broadside swept to death a score ! Still speak they of Decatur's name? Roundly played her guns and well, till their Or Bainbridge's and Perry's fame? fiery ensigns fell,

Of me, who earliest came ? Neither foe replying inore.

Make really, all : All in silence, when the night-breeze cleared the Room for the Admiral ! air,

Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars!” Old Ironsides rested there,

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. Locked in between the twain, and drenched with

blood.
Then homeward, like an eagle with her prey !
0, it was a gallant fray, -

KANE.
That fight in Biscay Bay!
Fearless the captain stood, in his youthful hardi-
hood :

ALOFT upon an old basaltic crag,
He was the boldest of them all,

Which, scalper by keen winds that defend Our brave old Admiral !

the Pole, Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll

Around the secret of the mystic zone, Anıl still our heroes bleed,

A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag Taught by that olden deed.

Flutters alone, Whether of iron or of oak

And underneath, upon the lifeless front The ships we marshal at our country's need,

1 Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced ; Still speak their cannon now as then they Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt, spoke ;

But with a rocky purpose in his soul, Still floats our unstruck banner from the mast

Breasted the gathering snows, As in the stormy past.

(lung to the drifting floes,

By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, Lay him in the ground :

Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. Let him rest where the ancient river rolls ; Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the sound Not many months ago we greeted him,

Of the bell whose proclaination, as it tolls, L 'Crowned with the icy honors of the Nortlı, Is of Freedom and the gift our fathers guve. Across the land his hard-won famie went fortlı, Lay him gently down :

| And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by The clamor of the town Will not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful, His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, ripe sleep,

Burst from decorous quiet, as he came. Of this lion of the wave,

| Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, Will not trouble the old Admiral in his grave. Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim,

DIED FEBRUARY 16, 1857.

limb.

Proffered its horny hand. The large-lunged West, / Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew ; From out his giant breast,

The whispers of rebellion, faint and few Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to main At first, but deepening ever till they grew Jubilant to the sky,

Into black thoughts of murder, --such the throng Thundered the mighty cry,

Of horrors bound the hero. High the song HONOR TO KANE!

Should be that hymus the noble part he played !

Sinking himself, yet ministering aid In vain, - in vain beneath his feet we Aung

To all around him. By a mighty will The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured Living defiant of the wants that kill,

The golden wine, and round the shining board Because his death would seal his comrades' fate ; Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung | Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! Those polar waters, dark and desolate.

Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased Equal to every trial, every fate, Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, He stands, until spring, tardy with relief, Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies,

Unlocks the icy gate, Faded and faded ! And the brave young heart and the pale prisoners thread the world once That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed

more, Of all its vital heat, in that long quest

To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore For the lost captain, now within his breast

Bearing their dying chief !
More and more faintly throbbed.
His was the victory ; but as his grasp

Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold! Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, From royal hands, who wooed the knightly Death launched a whistling dart;

state; And ere the thunders of applause were done The knell of old formalities is tolled, His bright eyes closed forever on the sun !

And the world's knights are now self-conseToo late, — too late the splendid prize he won

crate. In the Olympic race of Science and of Art!

No grander episode doth chivalry hold Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone, In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, Drifts from the white North to a Tropic zone, | Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain, And in the burning day

Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold, Wastes peak by peak away,

By the good Christian kuight, Elisha Kane ! Till on some rosy even

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.
It dies with sunlight blessing it ; so he
Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea,
And melted into heaven !

MAZZINI.
He needs no tears who lived a noble life!
We will not weep for him who died so well ; 1

A Light is out in Italy,
But we will gather round the hearth, and tell A golden tongue of purest flame.
The story of his strife ;

We watched it burning, long and lone,
Such homage suits him well,

And every watcher knew its name,
Better than funeral pomp or passing bell !

And knew from whence its fervor came :

That one rare light of Italy, What tale of peril and self-sacrifice !

Which put self-seeking souls to shame! Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice,

With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow ! This light which burnt for Italy Night lengthening into months ; the ravenous Through all the blackness of her night, floe

She doubted, once upon a time, Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear Because it took away her sight. Crunches his prey. The insufficient share She looked and said, ' There is no light!” Of loathsome food;

It was thine eyes, poor Italy ! The lethargy of famine ; the despair

That knew not dark apart from bright. Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued :

Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued This flame which burnt for Italy, Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind

It would not let her haters sleep. Glimmered the fading embers of a mind!

They blew at it with angry breath, That awful hour, when through the prostrate band And only fed its upward leap, Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand | And only made it hot and deep.

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