SWAIN BEHOLD--not him we knew! This was the prison which his soul looked through, Tender, and brave, and true.
His voice no more is heard; And his dead name--that dear familiar word-- Lies on our lips unstirred.
He spake with poet's tongue; Living, for him the minstrel's lyre was strung: He shall not die unsung.
Grief tried his love, and pain; And the long bondage of his martyr-chain Vexed his sweet soul,--in vain! It felt life's surges break, As, girt with stormy seas, his island lake, Smiling while tempests wake.
How can we sorrow more?
Grieve not for him whose heart had gone before To that untrodden shore! Lo, through its leafy screen, A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green, Untrodden, half unseen! Here let his body rest, Where the calm shadows that his soul loved best May slide above his breast.
Smooth his uncurtained bed; And if some natural tears are softly shed, It is not for the dead.
Fold the green turf aright For the long hours before the morning's light, And say the last Good Night! And plant a clear white stone Close by those mounds which hold his loved, his own,-- Lonely, but not alone.
Here let him sleeping lie, Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber in the sky And Death himself shall die! Naushon, September 22, 1858.
IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JR.
HE was all sunshine; in his face The very soul of sweetness shone; Fairest and gentlest of his race; None like him we can call our own.
Something there was of one that died In her fresh spring-time long ago, Our first dear Mary, angel-eyed, Whose smile it was a bliss to know.
Something of her whose love imparts Such radiance to her day's decline, We feel its twilight in our hearts Bright as the earliest morning-shine.
Yet richer strains our eye could trace That made our plainer mould more fair, That curved the lip with happier grace, That waved the soft and silken hair.
Dust unto dust! the lips are still That only spoke to cheer and bless; The folded hands lie white and chill Unclasped from sorrow's last caress.
Leave him in peace; he will not heed These idle tears we vainly pour, Give back to earth the fading weed Of mortal shape his spirit wore.
"Shall I not weep my heartstrings torn, My flower of love that falls half blown, My youth uncrowned, my life forlorn, A thorny path to walk alone ?" O Mary! one who bore thy name, Whose Friend and Master was divine, Sat waiting silent till He came, Bowed down in speechless grief like thine.
"Where have ye laid him ?" "Come," they say, Pointing to where the loved one slept; Weeping, the sister led the way,-- And, seeing Mary, "Jesus wept." He weeps with thee, with all that mourn, And He shall wipe thy streaming eyes Who knew all sorrows, woman-born,-- Trust in his word; thy dead shall rise! April 15, 1860.
MARTHA DIED JANUARY 7, 1861 SEXTON! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! Her weary hands their labor cease; Good night, poor Martha,--sleep in peace! Toll the bell! Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! For many a year has Martha said, "I'm old and poor,--would I were dead!" Toll the bell! Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! She'll bring no more, by day or night, Her basket full of linen white.
Toll the bell! Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! 'T is fitting she should lie below A pure white sheet of drifted snow.
Toll the bell! Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! Sleep, Martha, sleep, to wake in light, Where all the robes are stainless white.
Toll the bell! MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD COLLEGE 1857 I THANK you, MR.

PRESIDENT, you've kindly broke the ice; Virtue should always be the first,--I 'm only SECOND VICE-- (A vice is something with a screw that's made to hold its jaw Till some old file has played away upon an ancient saw).
Sweet brothers by the Mother's side, the babes of days gone by, All nurslings of her Juno breasts whose milk is never dry, We come again, like half-grown boys, and gather at her beck About her knees, and on her lap, and clinging round her neck.
We find her at her stately door, and in her ancient chair, Dressed in the robes of red and green she always loved to wear.
Her eye has all its radiant youth, her cheek its morning flame; We drop our roses as we go, hers flourish still the same.
We have been playing many an hour, and far away we've strayed, Some laughing in the cheerful sun, some lingering in the shade; And some have tired, and laid them down where darker shadows fall, Dear as her loving voice may be, they cannot hear its call.
What miles we 've travelled since we shook the dew-drops from our shoes We gathered on this classic green, so famed for heavy dues! How many boys have joined the game, how many slipped away, Since we've been running up and down, and having out our play! One boy at work with book and brief, and one with gown and band, One sailing vessels on the pool, one digging sand, One flying paper kites on change, one planting little pills,-- The seeds of certain annual flowers well known as little bills.
What maidens met us on our way, and clasped us hand in hand! What cherubs,--not the legless kind, that fly, but never stand! How many a youthful head we've seen put on its silver crown What sudden changes back again to youth's empurpled brown! But fairer sights have met our eyes, and broader lights have shone, Since others lit their midnight lamps where once we trimmed our own; A thousand trains that flap the sky with flags of rushing fire, And, throbbing in the Thunderer's hand, Thought's million-chorded lyre.
We've seen the sparks of Empire fly beyond the mountain bars, Till, glittering o'er the Western wave, they joined the setting stars; And ocean trodden into paths that trampling giants ford, To find the planet's vertebrae and sink its spinal cord.
We've tried reform,--and chloroform,--and both have turned our brain; When France called up the photograph, we roused the foe to pain; Just so those earlier sages shared the chaplet of renown,-- Hers sent a bladder to the clouds, ours brought their lightning down.
We've seen the little tricks of life, its varnish and veneer, Its stucco-fronts of character flake off and disappear, We 've learned that oft the brownest hands will heap the biggest pile, And met with many a "perfect brick" beneath a rimless "tile." What dreams we 've had of deathless name, as scholars, statesmen, bards, While Fame, the lady with the trump, held up her picture cards! Till, having nearly played our game, she gayly whispered, "Ah! I said you should be something grand,--you'll soon be grandpapa." Well, well, the old have had their day, the young must take their turn; There's something always to forget, and something still to learn; But how to tell what's old or young, the tap-root from the sprigs, Since Florida revealed her fount to Ponce de Leon Twiggs?
The wisest was a Freshman once, just freed from bar and bolt, As noisy as a kettle-drum, as leggy as a colt; Don't be too savage with the boys,--the Primer does not say The kitten ought to go to church because the cat doth prey.
The law of merit and of age is not the rule of three; Non constat that A.M.must prove as busy as A.B.
When Wise the father tracked the son, ballooning through the skies, He taught a lesson to the old,--go thou and do like Wise! Now then, old boys, and reverend youth, of high or low degree, Remember how we only get one annual out of three, And such as dare to simmer down three dinners into one Must cut their salads mighty short, and pepper well with fun.
I've passed my zenith long ago, it's time for me to set; A dozen planets wait to shine, and I am lingering yet, As sometimes in the blaze of day a milk-and-watery moon Stains with its dim and fading ray the lustrous blue of noon.
Farewell! yet let one echo rise to shake our ancient hall; God save the Queen,--whose throne is here,--the Mother of us all Till dawns the great commencement-day on every shore and sea, And "Expectantur" all mankind, to take their last Degree! THE PARTING SONG FESTIVAL OF THE ALUMNI, 1857 THE noon of summer sheds its ray On Harvard's holy ground; The Matron calls, the sons obey, And gather smiling round.
CHORUS.
Then old and young together stand, The sunshine and the snow, As heart to heart, and hand in hand, We sing before we go! Her hundred opening doors have swung Through every storied hall The pealing echoes loud have rung, "Thrice welcome one and all!" Then old and young, etc.
We floated through her peaceful bay, To sail life's stormy seas But left our anchor where it lay Beneath her green old trees.
Then old and young, etc.
As now we lift its lengthening chain, That held us fast of old, The rusted rings grow bright again,-- Their iron turns to gold.
Then old and young, etc.
Though scattered ere the setting sun, As leaves when wild winds blow, Our home is here, our hearts are one, Till Charles forgets to flow.
Then old and young, etc.
FOR THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL SANITARY ASSOCIATION 1860 WHAT makes the Healing Art divine?
The bitter drug we buy and sell, The brands that scorch, the blades that shine, The scars we leave, the "cures" we tell?
Are these thy glories, holiest Art,-- The trophies that adorn thee best,-- Or but thy triumph's meanest part,-- Where mortal weakness stands confessed?
We take the arms that Heaven supplies For Life's long battle with Disease, Taught by our various need to prize Our frailest weapons, even these.
But ah! when Science drops her shield-- Its peaceful shelter proved in vain-- And bares her snow-white arm to wield The sad, stern ministry of pain; When shuddering o'er the fount of life, She folds her heaven-anointed wings, To lift unmoved the glittering knife That searches all its crimson springs; When, faithful to her ancient lore, She thrusts aside her fragrant balm For blistering juice, or cankering ore, And tames them till they cure or calm; When in her gracious hand are seen The dregs and scum of earth and seas, Her kindness counting all things clean That lend the sighing sufferer ease; Though on the field that Death has won, She save some stragglers in retreat;-- These single acts of mercy done Are but confessions of defeat.
What though our tempered poisons save Some wrecks of life from aches and ails; Those grand specifics Nature gave Were never poised by weights or scales! God lent his creatures light and air, And waters open to the skies; Man locks him in a stifling lair, And wonders why his brother dies! In vain our pitying tears are shed, In vain we rear the sheltering pile Where Art weeds out from bed to bed The plagues we planted by the mile! Be that the glory of the past; With these our sacred toils begin So flies in tatters from its mast The yellow flag of sloth and sin, And lo! the starry folds reveal The blazoned truth we hold so dear To guard is better than to heal,-- The shield is nobler than the spear! FOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION JANUARY 25, 1859 His birthday .-- Nay, we need not speak The name each heart is beating,-- Each glistening eye and flushing cheek In light and flame repeating! We come in one tumultuous tide,-- One surge of wild emotion,-- As crowding through the Frith of Clyde Rolls in the Western Ocean; As when yon cloudless, quartered moon Hangs o'er each storied river, The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon With sea green wavelets quiver.
The century shrivels like a scroll,-- The past becomes the present,-- And face to face, and soul to soul, We greet the monarch-peasant.
While Shenstone strained in feeble flights With Corydon and Phillis,-- While Wolfe was climbing Abraham's heights To snatch the Bourbon lilies,-- Who heard the wailing infant's cry, The babe beneath the sheeliug, Whose song to-night in every sky Will shake earth's starry ceiling,-- Whose passion-breathing voice ascends And floats like incense o'er us, Whose ringing lay of friendship blends With labor's anvil chorus?
We love him, not for sweetest song, Though never tone so tender; We love him, even in his wrong,-- His wasteful self-surrender.
We praise him, not for gifts divine,-- His Muse was born of woman,-- His manhood breathes in every line,-- Was ever heart more human?
We love him, praise him, just for this In every form and feature, Through wealth and want, through woe and bliss, He saw his fellow-creature! No soul could sink beneath his love,-- Not even angel blasted; No mortal power could soar above The pride that all outlasted! Ay! Heaven had set one living man Beyond the pedant's tether,-- His virtues, frailties, HE may scan, Who weighs them all together! I fling my pebble on the cairn Of him, though dead, undying; Sweet Nature's nursling, bonniest bairn Beneath her daisies lying.
The waning suns, the wasting globe, Shall spare the minstrel's story,-- The centuries weave his purple robe, The mountain-mist of glory! AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS AUGUST 29, 1859 I REMEMBER--why, yes! God bless me! and was it so long ago?
I fear I'm growing forgetful, as old folks do, you know; It must have been in 'forty--I would say 'thirty-nine-- We talked this matter over, I and a friend of mine.
He said, "Well now, old fellow, I'm thinking that you and I, If we act like other people, shall be older by and by; What though the bright blue ocean is smooth as a pond can be, There is always a line of breakers to fringe the broadest sea.
"We're taking it mighty easy, but that is nothing strange, For up to the age of thirty we spend our years like Change; But creeping up towards the forties, as fast as the old years fill, And Time steps in for payment, we seem to change a bill." "I know it," I said, "old fellow; you speak the solemn truth; A man can't live to a hundred and likewise keep his youth; But what if the ten years coming shall silver-streak my hair, You know I shall then be forty; of course I shall not care.
"At forty a man grows heavy and tired of fun and noise; Leaves dress to the five-and-twenties and love to the silly boys; No foppish tricks at forty, no pinching of waists and toes, But high-low shoes and flannels and good thick worsted hose." But one fine August morning I found myself awake My birthday:--By Jove, I'm forty! Yes, forty, and no mistake! Why, this is the very milestone, I think I used to hold, That when a fellow had come to, a fellow would then be old! But that is the young folks' nonsense; they're full of their foolish stuff; A man's in his prime at forty,--I see that plain enough; At fifty a man is wrinkled, and may be bald or gray; I call men old at fifty, in spite of all they say.
At last comes another August with mist and rain and shine; Its mornings are slowly counted and creep to twenty-nine, And when on the western summits the fading light appears, It touches with rosy fingers the last of my fifty years.
There have been both men and women whose hearts were firm and bold, But there never was one of fifty that loved to say "I'm old"; So any elderly person that strives to shirk his years, Make him stand up at a table and try him by his peers.
Now here I stand at fifty, my jury gathered round; Sprinkled with dust of silver, but not yet silver-crowned, Ready to meet your verdict, waiting to hear it told; Guilty of fifty summers; speak! Is the verdict _old_.
No! say that his hearing fails him; say that his sight grows dim; Say that he's getting wrinkled and weak in back and limb, Losing his wits and temper, but pleading, to make amends, The youth of his fifty summers he finds in his twenty friends.
FOR THE FAIR IN AID OF THE FUND TO PROCURE BALL'S STATUE OF WASHINGTON 1630 ALL overgrown with bush and fern, And straggling clumps of tangled trees, With trunks that lean and boughs that turn, Bent eastward by the mastering breeze,-- With spongy bogs that drip and fill A yellow pond with muddy rain, Beneath the shaggy southern hill Lies wet and low the Shawinut plain.
And hark! the trodden branches crack; A crow flaps off with startled scream; A straying woodchuck canters back; A bittern rises from the stream; Leaps from his lair a frightened deer; An otter plunges in the pool;-- Here comes old Shawmut's pioneer, The parson on his brindled bull! 1774 The streets are thronged with trampling feet, The northern hill is ridged with graves, But night and morn the drum is beat To frighten down the "rebel knaves." The stones of King Street still are red, And yet the bloody red-coats come I hear their pacing sentry's tread, The click of steel, the tap of drum, And over all the open green, Where grazed of late the harmless kine, The cannon's deepening ruts are seen, The war-horse stamps, the bayonets shine.
The clouds are dark with crimson rain Above the murderous hirelings' den, And soon their whistling showers shall stain The pipe-clayed belts of Gage's men.
186- Around the green, in morning light, The spired and palaced summits blaze, And, sunlike, from her Beacon-height The dome-crowned city spreads her rays; They span the waves, they belt the plains, They skirt the roads with bands of white, Till with a flash of gilded panes Yon farthest hillside bounds the sight.
Peace, Freedom, Wealth! no fairer view, Though with the wild-bird's restless wings We sailed beneath the noontide's blue Or chased the moonlight's endless rings! Here, fitly raised by grateful hands His holiest memory to recall, The Hero's, Patriot's image stands; He led our sires who won them all! November 14, 1859.
THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA A NIGHTMARE DREAM BY DAYLIGHT Do you know the Old Man of the Sea, of the Sea?
Have you met with that dreadful old man?
If you have n't been caught, you will be, you will be; For catch you he must and he can.
He does n't hold on by your throat, by your throat, As of old in the terrible tale; But he grapples you tight by the coat, by the coat, Till its buttons and button-holes fail.
There's the charm of a snake in his eye, in his eye, And a polypus-grip in his hands; You cannot go back, nor get by, nor get by, If you look at the spot where he stands.
Oh, you're grabbed! See his claw on your sleeve, on your sleeve! It is Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea! You're a Christian, no doubt you believe, you believe You're a martyr, whatever you be! Is the breakfast-hour past?
They must wait, they must wait, While the coffee boils sullenly down, While the Johnny-cake burns on the grate, on the grate, And the toast is done frightfully brown.
Yes, your dinner will keep; let it cool, let it cool, And Madam may worry and fret, And children half-starved go to school, go to school; He can't think of sparing you yet.
Hark! the bell for the train! "Come along! Come along! For there is n't a second to lose." "ALL ABOARD!" (He holds on.) "Fsht I ding-dong! Fsht! ding-dong!"-- You can follow on foot, if you choose.
There's a maid with a cheek like a peach, like a peach, That is waiting for you in the church;-- But he clings to your side like a leech, like a leech, And you leave your lost bride in the lurch.
There's a babe in a fit,--hurry quick! hurry quick! To the doctor's as fast as you can! The baby is off, while you stick, while you stick, In the grip of the dreadful Old Man! I have looked on the face of the Bore, of the Bore; The voice of the Simple I know; I have welcomed the Flat at my door, at my door; I have sat by the side of the Slow; I have walked like a lamb by the friend, by the friend, That stuck to my skirts like a bur; I have borne the stale talk without end, without end, Of the sitter whom nothing could stir.
But my hamstrings grow loose, and I shake, and I shake, At the sight of the dreadful Old Man; Yea, I quiver and quake, and I take, and I take, To my legs with what vigor I can! Oh the dreadful Old Man of the Sea, of the Sea He's come back like the Wandering Jew! He has had his cold claw upon me, upon me,-- And be sure that he 'll have it on you! INTERNATIONAL ODE OUR FATHERS' LAND GOD bless our Fathers' Land! Keep her in heart and hand One with our own! From all her foes defend, Be her brave People's Friend, On all her realms descend, Protect her Throne! Father, with loving care Guard Thou her kingdom's Heir, Guide all his ways Thine arm his shelter be, From him by land and sea Bid storm and danger flee, Prolong his days! Lord, let War's tempest cease, Fold the whole Earth in peace Under thy wings Make all thy nations one, All hearts beneath the sun, Till Thou shalt reign alone, Great King of kings! A SENTIMENT OFFERED AT THE DINNER TO H.I.

H.
THE PRINCE NAPOLEON, AT THE REVERE HOUSE, SEPTEMBER 25,1861 THE land of sunshine and of song! Her name your hearts divine; To her the banquet's vows belong Whose breasts have poured its wine; Our trusty friend, our true ally Through varied change and chance So, fill your flashing goblets high,-- I give you, VIVE LA FRANCE! Above our hosts in triple folds The selfsame colors spread, Where Valor's faithful arm upholds The blue, the white, the red; Alike each nation's glittering crest Reflects the morning's glance,-- Twin eagles, soaring east and west Once more, then, VIVE LA FRANCE! Sister in trial! who shall count Thy generous friendship's claim, Whose blood ran mingling in the fount That gave our land its name, Till Yorktown saw in blended line Our conquering arms advance, And victory's double garlands twine Our banners?
VIVE LA FRANCE! O land of heroes! in our need One gift from Heaven we crave To stanch these wounds that vainly bleed,-- The wise to lead the brave! Call back one Captain of thy past From glory's marble trance, Whose name shall be a bugle-blast To rouse us! VIVE LA FRANCE! Pluck Conde's baton from the trench, Wake up stout Charles Martel, Or find some woman's hand to clench The sword of La Pucelle! Give us one hour of old Turenne,-- One lift of Bayard's lance,-- Nay, call Marengo's Chief again To lead us! VIVE LA FRANCE! Ah, hush! our welcome Guest shall hear But sounds of peace and joy; No angry echo vex thine ear, Fair Daughter of Savoy Once more! the land of arms and arts, Of glory, grace, romance; Her love lies warm in all our hearts God bless her! VIVE LA FRANCE! BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE SHE has gone,--she has left us in passion and pride,-- Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side! She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow, And turned on her brother the face of a foe! Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, We can never forget that our hearts have been one,-- Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name, From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame! You were always too ready to fire at a touch; But we said, "She is hasty,--she does not mean much." We have scowled, when you uttered some turbulent threat; But Friendship still whispered, "Forgive and forget!" Has our love all died out?
Have its altars grown cold?
Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold?
Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain That her petulant children would sever in vain.
They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil, Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their eaves, And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves: In vain is the strife! When its fury is past, Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below.
Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky Man breaks not the medal, when God cuts the die! Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel, The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal! Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, There are battles with Fate that can never be won! The star-flowering banner must never be furled, For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world! Go, then, our rash sister! afar and aloof, Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof; But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore, Remember the pathway that leads to our door! March 25, 1861.
NOTES: (For original print volume one) [There stand the Goblet and the Sun.] The Goblet and the Sun (Vas-Sol), sculptured on a free-stone slab supported by five pillars, are the only designation of the family tomb of the Vassalls.
[Thus mocked the spoilers with his school-boy scorn.] See "Old Ironsides," of this volume.
[On other shores, above their mouldering towns.] Daniel Webster quoted several of the verses which follow, in his address at the laying of the corner-stone of the addition to the Capitol at Washington, July 4, 1851.
[Thou calm, chaste scholar.] Charles Chauncy Emerson; died May 9, 1836.
[And thou, dear friend, whom Science still deplores.] James Jackson, Jr., M.D.; died March 28, 1834.
[THE STEAMBOAT.] Mr.Emerson has quoted some lines from this poem, but somewhat disguised as he recalled them.

It is never safe to quote poetry without referring to the original.
[Hark! The sweet bells renew their welcome sound.] The churches referred to in the lines which follow are,-- 1.

King's Chapel, the foundation of which was laid by Governor Shirley in 1749.
2.