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Its burning showed us Italy, And all the hopes she had to keep.

This light is out in Italy,

Her eyes shall seek for it in vain ! For her sweet sake it spent itself,

Too early flickering to its wane, --Too long blown over by her pain.

Bow down and weep, 0 Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again !

LAURA C. REDDEN (Howard Glyndon).

God-fearing, learned in life's hard-taught school;
By long obedience lessoned how to rule ;
Through many an early struggle led to find
That crown of prosperous fortune, – to be kind.
Lay on his breast these English daisies sweet!
Good rest to the gray head and the tired feet
That walked this world for seventy steadfast

years!
Bury him with fond blessings and few tears,
Or only of remembrance, not regret.
On his full life the eternal seal is set,
Unbroken till the resurrection day.
So let his children's children go their way,
Go and do likewise, leaving 'neath this sod
An honest man, “the noblest work of God.”

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

JOHN CHARLES FREMONT.

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ

MAY 28, 1857.

It was fifty years ago,

In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,

A child in its cradle lay.

Thy error, Fremont, simply was to act
A brave man's part, without the statesman's tact,
And, taking counsel but of common sense,
To strike at cause as well as consequence.
0, never yet since Roland wound his horn
At Roncesvalles has a blast been blown
Far-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own,
Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn !
It had been safer, doubtless, for the time,
To flatter treason, and avoid offence
To that Dark Power whose underlying crime
Heaves upward its perpetual turbulence.
But, if thine be the fate of all who break
The ground for truth's seeil, or forerun their

years
Till lost in distance, or with stout hearts make
A lane for freedom through the level spears,
Still take thou courage ! God has spoken through

thee, Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free! The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull

ear
Turns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear.
Who would recall them now must first arrest
The winds that blow down from the free North-

west,
Ruffling the Gulf ; or like a scroll roll back
Tho Mississippi to its upper springs.
Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lack
But the full time to harden into things.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

And Nature, the old nurse, took

The child upon her knee, Saying, “Here is a story-book

Thy Father has written for thee."

“Come, wander with me," she said,

“Into regions yet untrod, And read what is still unread

In the manuscripts of God."

And he wandered away and away

With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day

The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long,

Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderful song,

Or tell a more marvellous tale.

TO THE MEMORY OF FLETCHER

HARPER.

So she keeps him still a child,

And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild

For the beautiful Pays de Vaud ;

No soldier, statesman, hierophant, or king;
None of the heroes that you poets sing ;
A toiler ever since his days began,
Simple, though shrewd, just-judging, man to

man;

Though at times he hears in his dreams

The Ranz des Vaches of old,
And the rush of mountain streams

From glaciers clear and cold ;

And the mother at home says, “ Hark!

For his voice I listen and yearn :
It is growing late and dark,
And my boy does not return !”

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE PRAYER OF AGASSIZ.

On the isle of Penikese,
Ringed about by sapphire seas,
Fanned by breczes salt and cool,
Stood the Master with his school.
Over sails that not in vain
Wooed the west-wind's steady strain,
Line of const that low and far
Stretched its undulating bar,
Wings aslant along the rim
Of the waves they stooped to skim,
Rock and isle and glistening bay,
Fell the beautiful white day.

The All-Father heareth us ;
And his holy ear we pain
With our noisy words and vain.
Not for him our violence,
Storming at the gates of sense,
His the primal language, his
The eternal silences !
Even the careless heart was moved,
And the doubting gave assent,
With a gesture reverent,
To the Master well-beloved.
As thin mists are glorified
By the light they cannot hide,
All who gazed upon him saw,
Through its veil of tender awe,
How his face was still uplit
By the olal sweet look of it,
Hopeful, trustful, full of cheer,
And the love that casts out fear.
Who the secret may declare
of that brief, unuttered prayer ?
Did the shaile before him come
of the inevitable doom,
Of the end of earth so near,
And Eternity's new year ?

Said the Master to the youth :
“We have come in search of truth,
Trying with uncertain key
Door by door of mystery ;
We are reaching, through His laws,
To the garment hem of Cause,
Him, the endless, unbegun,
The Unnameable, the One,
Light of all our light the Source,
Life of life, and Force of force.
As with fingers of the blind,
We are groping here to find
What the hieroglyphics mean
Of the Unseen in the seen,
What the Thought which underlies
Nature's masking and disguise,
What it is that hides beneath
Blight and bloom and birth and death.
By past efforts unavailing,
Doubt and error, loss and failing,
Of our weakness made aware,
On the threshold of our task
Let us light and guidance ask,
Let us pause in silent prayer !”

In the lap of sheltering seas
Rests the isle of Penikese;
But the lord of the domain
(omes not to his own again :
Where the eyes that follow fail,
On a vaster sea liis sail
Drifts beyond our beck und hail !
Other lips within its bound
Shall the laws of life expound ;
Other eyes from rock and shell
Read the world's old riddles well ;
But when breezes light and bland
Blow from Summer's blossomed lanıl,
When the air is glad with wings,
And the blithe song-sparrow sings,
Many an eye with his still face
Shall the living ones displace,
Many an ear the word shall seck
He alone could fitly speak.
And one name forevermore
Shall be uttered o'er and o'er
By the waves that kiss the shore,
By the curlew's whistle, sent
Down the cool, sea-scented air ;
In all voices known to her
Nature own her worshipper,
Half in triumph, half lament.
Thither love shall tearful turn,
Friendship pause uncovered there,
And the wisest reverence learn
From the Master's silent prayer.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEN

Then the Master in his place
Bowed his head a little space,
And the leaves by soft airs stirred,
Lapse of wave and cry of bird,
Left the solemn hush unbroken
Of that wordless prayer unspoken,
While its wish, on earth unsaid,
Rose to heaven interpreted.
As in life's best hours we hear
By the spirit's finer ear
His low voice within us, thus

TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, l. Tears fell, when thou wert dying,

From eyes unused to weep,
ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27TH FEBRUARY, 1867.

And long, where thou art lying,
I NEED not praise the sweetness of his song, I Will tears the cold turf steep.

Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he

When hearts, whose truth was proven, wrong

Like thine, are laid in earth, The new moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along,

There should a wreath be woven Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds.

To tell the world their worth ; With loving breath of all the winds his name

And I, who woke each morrow Is blown about the world, but to his friends

To clasp thy hand in mine, A sweeter secret hides behind his fanie,

Who shared thy joy and sorrow,

Whose weal and woe were thine,
And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim
To murmur a God bless you! and there ends.

It should be mine to braid it

Around thy faded brow, As I muse backward up the checkered years,

But I've in vain essayed it,
Wherein so much was given, so much was lost,

And feel I cannot now.
Blessings in both kinds, such as cheapen tears — !
But hush ! this is not for profaner ears;

While memory bids me weep thee, Let them drink molten pearls nor dream the Nor thoughts nor words are free, cost.

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.
Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core,
As naught but nightshade grew upon earth's !

ground;
Love turned all his to heart's-ease, and the more

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. Fate tried his bastions, she but forced a door,

READ AT THE UNVEILING OF HIS STATUE IN CENTRAL Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound.

PARK, MAY, 1877. Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade

AMONG their graven shapes to whom Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with sun,

Thy civic wreaths belong, So through his trial faith translucent rayed,

O city of his love ! make room Till darkness, half disnatured so, betrayed .

For one whose gist was song A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun.

Not his the soldier's sword to wield,

Nor his the helm of state,
Surely if skill in song the shears may stay,

Nor glory of the stricken field,
And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss,
If our poor life be lengthened by a lay,

Nor triumph of debate.
He shall not go, although his presence may,

In common ways, with common men, And the next age in praise shall double this.

He served his race and time

As well as if his clerkly pen
Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet

Had never danced to rhyme.
As gracious natures find his song to be ;
May Age steal on with softly cadenced feet

If, in the thronged and noisy mart,
Falling in music, as for him were meet

The Muses found their son, Whose choicest verse is barsher-toned than he ! Could any say his tuneful art JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

A duty left undone ?

FITZ.GREENE HALLECK

He toiled and sang ; and year by year

Men found their homes inore sweet, And through a tenderer atmosphere

Looked down the brick-walled street.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

DIED IN NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER, 1820. Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days ! None knew thee but to love thee,

Nor named thee but to praise.

The Greek's wild onset Wall Street knew,

The Red King walked Broadway ;
And Alnwick Castle's roses blew

From Palisades to Bay.

Fair City by the Sea! upraise

His veil with reverent hands ;
And mingle with thy own the praise

And pride of other lands.

Let Greece his fiery lyric breathe

Above her hero-urns ;
And Scotland, with her holly, wreathe

The flower he culled for Burns.

THE DUKE OF GLOSTER.
I, that am rudely stamped and want love's

majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them, -
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to see my shadow in the sun.

King Richard III., Ad i. Sc. I.

O, stately stand thy palace walls,

Thy tall ships ride the seas ; To-day thy poet's name recalls

A prouder thought than these.

SHAKESPEARR

Not less thy pulse of trade shall beat,

Nor less thy tall feets swim,
That shaded square and dusty street

Are classic ground through him.

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Alive, he loved, like all who sing,

The echoes of his song ;
Too late the tardy meed we bring,

The praise delayed so long.
Too late, alas !- Of all who knew

The living man, to-day
Before his unveiled face, how few

Make bare thei: locks of gray !

Sir Philip SIDNEY.
The admired mirror, glory of our isle,
Thou far, far more than mortal man, whose style
Struck more men dumb to hearken to thy song
Than Orpheus' harp, or Tully's golden tongue.
To him, as right, for wit's deep quintessence,
For honor, valor, virtue, excellence,
Be all the garlands, crown his tomb with bay,
Who spake as much as e'er our tongue can say.

Britannia's Pastorals, Book ii. Song 2. W. BROWNE.

Our lips of praise must soon be dumb,

Our grateful eyes be dim ;
O, brothers of the days to come,

Take tender charge of him !

New hands the wires of song may sweep,

EDMUND SPENSER.
New voices challenge fame;

Divinest Spenser, heaven-bred, happy Muse ! But let no moss of years o'ercreep

Would any power into my brain infuse
The lines of Halleck's name.

Thy worth, or all that poets had before,
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. I could not praise till thou deserv'st no more.

Britannia's Pastorals, Book ii. Song 1. W. BROWNB.
I was promised on a time

To have reason for my rhyme;
FRAGMENTS.

From that time unto this season,
I received nor rhyme nor reason.

Lines on his promised Pension.
CHAUCER.
As that renowned poet them compyled
With warlike numbers and heroicke sound,

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.
Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled, For that fine madness still he did retain,
On Fame's eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled. | Which rightly should possess a poet's brain.
Facrie Queene, Book iv. Cant. ii.

SPENSER. To Henry Reynolds : Of Poets and Poesy. M. DRAYTON.

SPENSER

THE EARL OF WARWICK.

Lord Bacon. Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick ! | If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined, Proud setter-up and puller-down of kings. The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind :

King Henry VI., Part III. Act iii. Sc. 3. SHAKESPEARE, I Essay on Man, Epistle IV.

K!

РОРЕ.

BEN JONSON.

EARL OF MARLBOROUGH.

(Lord-President of the Council to King James 1. l'arliainent was O rare Ben Jonson !

dissolved March to, and he died March 14, 1628.) Epitaph.

SIR J. YOUNG

Till the sad breaking of that Parliament
What things have we seen

Broke him. ...
Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have

Killed with report that old man eloquent.
To the Lady Margaret Ley.

MII TON.
been
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame,,
As if that every one from whence they came

JOHN WICKLIFFE.
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,
And had resolved to live a fool the rest

As thou these ashes, little Brook ! wilt bear Of his dull life : then when there hath been Into the Avon, Avon to the tide thrown

Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Wit able enough to justify the town

Into main ocean they, this deed accursed For three days past; wit that might warrant be An emblem yields to friends and enemies, For the whole city to talk foolishly

How the bold Teacher's doctrine, sanctified Till that were cancelled; and when that was yuno, By truth, shall spread, throughout the world We left an air behind us, which alone

dispersed. Was able to make the two next con panies Eccies. Sonnets, Part II. xvii. : To Wickliffe. WORDSWORTH (Right witty, though but downright fools) more wise.

(Bartlett quotes, in this connection, the following:) letter to Ben Fonson.

F. BEAUMONT. | " Some prophet of that day said :

* The Avon to the Severn runs,

The Severn to the sea ;
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

And Wickliffe's dust shall spread abroad, Far from the sun and summer gale,

Wide as the waters be.'”

From Address before the Sons of New Hampshire" (1849). In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,

DANIEL WEBSTER, What time, where lucid Avon strayed,

To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face : the dauntless child

John Milton. Stretched forth his little arms and smiled. “This pencil take,” she saiil, “whose colors clear

Nor second he, that rode sublime Richly paint the vernal year :

Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy, Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!

The secrets of the abyss to spy. l'his can unlock the gates of joy ;

He passed the flaming bounds of place and time Of horror that, and thrilling fears,

The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Dr ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears."

Where angels tremble while they gaze,

He saw ; but, blasted with excess of light, Progress of Poesy.

T. GRAY.

Closed his eyes in endless night.
Progress of Poesy.

T. GRAY.
Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh
To learned Chaucer, and rare Beaumont lie
A little nearer Spenser, to make room

OLIVER CROMWELL. For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold tomb. I

| How shall I then begin, or where conclude,

... On Shakespeare.

W. BASSE.

To draw a fame so truly circular?
For in a round what order can be showed,

Where all the parts so equal perfect are ?
ABRAHAM Cowley.
Old mother-wit and nature gave

His grandeur he derived from Heaven alone; Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have ;

For he was great, ere fortune made him so : In Spenser and in Jonson art

And wars, like mists that rise against the sun, Of slower nature got the start ;

Made him but greater seem, not greater grow. But both in him so equal are,

Oliver Cromwell.

J. DRYDEN. None knows which bears the happiest share ; To him no author was unknown,

Or, ravished wiih the whistling of a name, Yet what he wrote was all his own

See Cromwell, damned to everlasting fame! Elegy on Cowley.

SIR J. DANHAM. I Essay on Man, Epistle IV.

POPE

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