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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;
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
thee, Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free! The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull
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
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;
Though at times he hears in his dreams
The Ranz des Vaches of old,
From glaciers clear and cold ;
And the mother at home says, “ Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn :
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE PRAYER OF AGASSIZ.
On the isle of Penikese,
The All-Father heareth us ;
Said the Master to the youth :
In the lap of sheltering seas
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEN
Then the Master in his place
TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, l. Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
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,
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,
And feel I cannot now.
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.
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,
Nor glory of the stricken field,
Nor triumph of debate.
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
Had never danced to rhyme.
If, in the thronged and noisy mart,
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 ?
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 ;
From Palisades to Bay.
Fair City by the Sea! upraise
His veil with reverent hands ;
And pride of other lands.
Let Greece his fiery lyric breathe
Above her hero-urns ;
The flower he culled for Burns.
THE DUKE OF GLOSTER.
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.
Not less thy pulse of trade shall beat,
Nor less thy tall feets swim,
Are classic ground through him.
Alive, he loved, like all who sing,
The echoes of his song ;
The praise delayed so long.
The living man, to-day
Make bare thei: locks of gray !
Sir Philip SIDNEY.
Britannia's Pastorals, Book ii. Song 2. W. BROWNE.
Our lips of praise must soon be dumb,
Our grateful eyes be dim ;
Take tender charge of him !
New hands the wires of song may sweep,
Divinest Spenser, heaven-bred, happy Muse ! But let no moss of years o'ercreep
Would any power into my brain infuse
Thy worth, or all that poets had before,
Britannia's Pastorals, Book ii. Song 1. W. BROWNB.
To have reason for my rhyme;
From that time unto this season,
Lines on his promised Pension.
SPENSER. To Henry Reynolds : Of Poets and Poesy. M. DRAYTON.
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.
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
Broke him. ...
Killed with report that old man eloquent.
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 ;
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.
Closed his eyes in endless night.
OLIVER CROMWELL. For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold tomb. I
| How shall I then begin, or where conclude,
... On Shakespeare.
To draw a fame so truly circular?
Where all the parts so equal perfect are ?
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,
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.