Nature so Holds their soft hands, and will not let them go, Till at the last they track with even feet Her rhythmic footsteps, and their pulses beat Twinned with her pulses, and their lips repeat.
The secrets she has told them, as their own Thus is the inmost soul of Nature known, And the rapt minstrel shares her awful throne! O lover of her mountains and her woods, Her bridal chamber's leafy solitudes, Where Love himself with tremulous step intrudes, Her snows fall harmless on thy sacred fire Far be the day that claims thy sounding lyre To join the music of the angel choir! Yet, since life's amplest measure must be filled, Since throbbing hearts must be forever stilled, And all must fade that evening sunsets gild, Grant, Father, ere he close the mortal eyes That see a Nation's reeking sacrifice, Its smoke may vanish from these blackened skies! Then, when his summons comes, since come it must, And, looking heavenward with unfaltering trust, He wraps his drapery round him for the dust, His last fond glance will show him o'er his head The Northern fires beyond the zenith spread In lambent glory, blue and white and red,-- The Southern cross without its bleeding load, The milky way of peace all freshly strowed, And every white-throned star fixed in its lost abode! A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ How the mountains talked together, Looking down upon the weather, When they heard our friend had planned his Little trip among the Andes! How they'll bare their snowy scalps To the climber of the Alps When the cry goes through their passes, "Here comes the great Agassiz!" "Yes, I'm tall," says Chimborazo, "But I wait for him to say so,-- That's the only thing that lacks,--he Must see me, Cotopaxi!" "Ay! ay!" the fire-peak thunders, "And he must view my wonders! I'm but a lonely crater Till I have him for spectator!" The mountain hearts are yearning, The lava-torches burning, The rivers bend to meet him, The forests bow to greet him, It thrills the spinal column Of fossil fishes solemn, And glaciers crawl the faster To the feet of their old master! Heaven keep him well and hearty, Both him and all his party! From the sun that broils and smites, From the centipede that bites, From the hail-storm and the thunder, From the vampire and the condor, From the gust upon the river, From the sudden earthquake shiver, From the trip of mule or donkey, From the midnight howling monkey, From the stroke of knife or dagger, From the puma and the jaguar, From the horrid boa-constrictor That has scared us in the pictur', From the Indians of the Pampas Who would dine upon their grampas, From every beast and vermin That to think of sets us squirmin', From every snake that tries on The traveller his p'ison, From every pest of Natur', Likewise the alligator, And from two things left behind him,-- (Be sure they'll try to find him,) The tax-bill and assessor,-- Heaven keep the great Professor May he find, with his apostles, That the land is full of fossils, That the waters swarm with fishes Shaped according to his wishes, That every pool is fertile In fancy kinds of turtle, New birds around him singing, New insects, never stinging, With a million novel data About the articulata, And facts that strip off all husks From the history of mollusks.
And when, with loud Te Deum, He returns to his Museum, May he find the monstrous reptile That so long the land has kept ill By Grant and Sherman throttled, And by Father Abraham bottled, (All specked and streaked and mottled With the scars of murderous battles, Where he clashed the iron rattles That gods and men he shook at,) For all the world to look at.
God bless the great Professor! And Madam, too, God bless her! Bless him and all his band, On the sea and on the land, Bless them head and heart and hand, Till their glorious raid is o'er, And they touch our ransomed shore! Then the welcome of a nation, With its shout of exultation, Shall awake the dumb creation, And the shapes of buried aeons Join the living creatures' poeans, Till the fossil echoes roar; While the mighty megalosaurus Leads the palaeozoic chorus,-- God bless the great Professor, And the land his proud possessor,-- Bless them now and evermore! 1865.
AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT JULY 6, 1865 Now, smiling friends and shipmates all, Since half our battle 's won, A broadside for our Admiral! Load every crystal gun Stand ready till I give the word,-- You won't have time to tire,-- And when that glorious name is heard, Then hip! hurrah! and fire! Bow foremost sinks the rebel craft,-- Our eyes not sadly turn And see the pirates huddling aft To drop their raft astern; Soon o'er the sea-worm's destined prey The lifted wave shall close,-- So perish from the face of day All Freedom's banded foes! But ah! what splendors fire the sky What glories greet the morn! The storm-tost banner streams on high, Its heavenly hues new-born! Its red fresh dyed in heroes' blood, Its peaceful white more pure, To float unstained o'er field and flood While earth and seas endure! All shapes before the driving blast Must glide from mortal view; Black roll the billows of the past Behind the present's blue, Fast, fast, are lessening in the light The names of high renown,-- Van Tromp's proud besom fades from sight, And Nelson's half hull down! Scarce one tall frigate walks the sea Or skirts the safer shores Of all that bore to victory Our stout old commodores; Hull, Bainbridge, Porter,--where are they?
The waves their answer roll, "Still bright in memory's sunset ray,-- God rest each gallant soul!" A brighter name must dim their light With more than noontide ray, The Sea-King of the "River Fight," The Conqueror of the Bay,-- Now then the broadside! cheer on cheer To greet him safe on shore! Health, peace, and many a bloodless year To fight his battles o'er! AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT JULY 31, 1865 WHEN treason first began the strife That crimsoned sea and shore, The Nation poured her hoarded life On Freedom's threshing-floor; From field and prairie, east and west, From coast and hill and plain, The sheaves of ripening manhood pressed Thick as the bearded grain.
Rich was the harvest; souls as true As ever battle tried; But fiercer still the conflict grew, The floor of death more wide; Ah, who forgets that dreadful day Whose blot of grief and shame Four bitter years scarce wash away In seas of blood and flame?
Vain, vain the Nation's lofty boasts,-- Vain all her sacrifice! "Give me a man to lead my hosts, O God in heaven!" she cries.
While Battle whirls his crushing flail, And plies his winnowing fan,-- Thick flies the chaff on every gale,-- She cannot find her man! Bravely they fought who failed to win,-- Our leaders battle-scarred,-- Fighting the hosts of hell and sin, But devils die always hard! Blame not the broken tools of God That helped our sorest needs; Through paths that martyr feet have trod The conqueror's steps He leads.
But now the heavens grow black with doubt, The ravens fill the sky, "Friends" plot within, foes storm without, Hark,--that despairing cry, "Where is the heart, the hand, the brain To dare, to do, to plan ?" The bleeding Nation shrieks in vain,-- She has not found her man! A little echo stirs the air,-- Some tale, whate'er it be, Of rebels routed in their lair Along the Tennessee.
The little echo spreads and grows, And soon the trump of Fame Has taught the Nation's friends and foes The "man on horseback"'s name.
So well his warlike wooing sped, No fortress might resist His billets-doux of lisping lead, The bayonets in his fist,-- With kisses from his cannons' mouth He made his passion known Till Vicksburg, vestal of the South, Unbound her virgin zone.
And still where'er his banners led He conquered as he came, The trembling hosts of treason fled Before his breath of flame, And Fame's still gathering echoes grew Till high o'er Richmond's towers The starry fold of Freedom flew, And all the land was ours.
Welcome from fields where valor fought To feasts where pleasure waits; A Nation gives you smiles unbought At all her opening gates! Forgive us when we press your hand,-- Your war-worn features scan,-- God sent you to a bleeding land; Our Nation found its man! TO H.W.

LONGFELLOW BEFORE HIS DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE, MAY 27, 1868 OUR Poet, who has taught the Western breeze To waft his songs before him o'er the seas, Will find them wheresoe'er his wanderings reach Borne on the spreading tide of English speech Twin with the rhythmic waves that kiss the farthest beach.
Where shall the singing bird a stranger be That finds a nest for him in every tree?
How shall he travel who can never go Where his own voice the echoes do not know, Where his own garden flowers no longer learn to grow?
Ah! gentlest soul! how gracious, how benign Breathes through our troubled life that voice of thine, Filled with a sweetness born of happier spheres, That wins and warms, that kindles, softens, cheers, That calms the wildest woe and stays the bitterest tears! Forgive the simple words that sound like praise; The mist before me dims my gilded phrase; Our speech at best is half alive and cold, And save that tenderer moments make us bold Our whitening lips would close, their truest truth untold.
We who behold our autumn sun below The Scorpion's sign, against the Archer's bow, Know well what parting means of friend from friend; After the snows no freshening dews descend, And what the frost has marred, the sunshine will not mend.
So we all count the months, the weeks, the days, That keep thee from us in unwonted ways, Grudging to alien hearths our widowed time; And one has shaped a breath in artless rhyme That sighs, "We track thee still through each remotest clime." What wishes, longings, blessings, prayers shall be The more than golden freight that floats with thee! And know, whatever welcome thou shalt find,-- Thou who hast won the hearts of half mankind,-- The proudest, fondest love thou leavest still behind! TO CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHRENBERG FOR HIS "JUBILAEUM" AT BERLIN, NOVEMBER 5, 1868 This poem was written at the suggestion of Mr.George Bancroft, the historian.
THOU who hast taught the teachers of mankind How from the least of things the mightiest grow, What marvel jealous Nature made thee blind, Lest man should learn what angels long to know?
Thou in the flinty rock, the river's flow, In the thick-moted sunbeam's sifted light Hast trained thy downward-pointed tube to show Worlds within worlds unveiled to mortal sight, Even as the patient watchers of the night,-- The cyclope gleaners of the fruitful skies,-- Show the wide misty way where heaven is white All paved with suns that daze our wondering eyes.
Far o'er the stormy deep an empire lies, Beyond the storied islands of the blest, That waits to see the lingering day-star rise; The forest-tinctured Eden of the West; Whose queen, fair Freedom, twines her iron crest With leaves from every wreath that mortals wear, But loves the sober garland ever best That science lends the sage's silvered hair;-- Science, who makes life's heritage more fair, Forging for every lock its mastering key, Filling with life and hope the stagnant air, Pouring the light of Heaven o'er land and sea! From her unsceptred realm we come to thee, Bearing our slender tribute in our hands; Deem it not worthless, humble though it be, Set by the larger gifts of older lands The smallest fibres weave the strongest bands,-- In narrowest tubes the sovereign nerves are spun,-- A little cord along the deep sea-sands Makes the live thought of severed nations one Thy fame has journeyed westering with the sun, Prairies and lone sierras know thy name And the long day of service nobly done That crowns thy darkened evening with its flame! One with the grateful world, we own thy claim,-- Nay, rather claim our right to join the throng Who come with varied tongues, but hearts the same, To hail thy festal morn with smiles and song; Ah, happy they to whom the joys belong Of peaceful triumphs that can never die From History's record,--not of gilded wrong, But golden truths that, while the world goes by With all its empty pageant, blazoned high Around the Master's name forever shine So shines thy name illumined in the sky,-- Such joys, such triumphs, such remembrance thine! A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS FEBRUARY 16, 1874 THE painter's and the poet's fame Shed their twinned lustre round his name, To gild our story-teller's art, Where each in turn must play his part.
What scenes from Wilkie's pencil sprung, The minstrel saw but left unsung! What shapes the pen of Collins drew, No painter clad in living hue! But on our artist's shadowy screen A stranger miracle is seen Than priest unveils or pilgrim seeks,-- The poem breathes, the picture speaks! And so his double name comes true, They christened better than they knew, And Art proclaims him twice her son,-- Painter and poet, both in one! MEMORIAL VERSES FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN CITY OF BOSTON, JUNE 1, 1865 CHORAL: "LUTHER'S JUDGMENT HYMN." O THOU of soul and sense and breath The ever-present Giver, Unto thy mighty Angel, Death, All flesh thou dost deliver; What most we cherish we resign, For life and death alike are thine, Who reignest Lord forever! Our hearts lie buried in the dust With him so true and tender, The patriot's stay, the people's trust, The shield of the offender; Yet every murmuring voice is still, As, bowing to thy sovereign will, Our best-loved we surrender.
Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold This martyr generation, Which thou, through trials manifold, Art showing thy salvation Oh let the blood by murder spilt Wash out thy stricken children's guilt And sanctify our nation! Be thou thy orphaned Israel's friend, Forsake thy people never, In One our broken Many blend, That none again may sever! Hear us, O Father, while we raise With trembling lips our song of praise, And bless thy name forever! FOR THE COMMEMORATION SERVICES CAMBRIDGE, JULY 21, 1865 FOUR summers coined their golden light in leaves, Four wasteful autumns flung them to the gale, Four winters wore the shroud the tempest weaves, The fourth wan April weeps o'er hill and vale; And still the war-clouds scowl on sea and land, With the red gleams of battle staining through, When lo! as parted by an angel's hand, They open, and the heavens again are blue! Which is the dream, the present or the past?
The night of anguish or the joyous morn?
The long, long years with horrors overcast, Or the sweet promise of the day new-born?
Tell us, O father, as thine arms infold Thy belted first-born in their fast embrace, Murmuring the prayer the patriarch breathed of old,-- "Now let me die, for I have seen thy face!" Tell us, O mother,--nay, thou canst not speak, But thy fond eyes shall answer, brimmed with joy,-- Press thy mute lips against the sunbrowned cheek, Is this a phantom,--thy returning boy?
Tell us, O maiden,--ah, what canst thou tell That Nature's record is not first to teach,-- The open volume all can read so well, With its twin rose-hued pages full of speech?
And ye who mourn your dead,--how sternly true The crushing hour that wrenched their lives away, Shadowed with sorrow's midnight veil for you, For them the dawning of immortal day! Dream-like these years of conflict, not a dream! Death, ruin, ashes tell the awful tale, Read by the flaming war-track's lurid gleam No dream, but truth that turns the nations pale.
For on the pillar raised by martyr hands Burns the rekindled beacon of the right, Sowing its seeds of fire o'er all the lands,-- Thrones look a century older in its light! Rome had her triumphs; round the conqueror's car The ensigns waved, the brazen clarions blew, And o'er the reeking spoils of bandit war With outspread wings the cruel eagles flew; Arms, treasures, captives, kings in clanking chains Urged on by trampling cohorts bronzed and scarred, And wild-eyed wonders snared on Lybian plains, Lion and ostrich and camelopard.
Vain all that praetors clutched, that consuls brought When Rome's returning legions crowned their lord; Less than the least brave deed these hands have wrought, We clasp, unclinching from the bloody sword.
Theirs was the mighty work that seers foretold; They know not half their glorious toil has won, For this is Heaven's same battle,-joined of old When Athens fought for us at Marathon! Behold a vision none hath understood! The breaking of the Apocalyptic seal; Twice rings the summons .-- Hail and fire and blood! Then the third angel blows his trumpet-peal.
Loud wail the dwellers on the myrtled coasts, The green savannas swell the maddened cry, And with a yell from all the demon hosts Falls the great star called Wormwood from the sky! Bitter it mingles with the poisoned flow Of the warm rivers winding to the shore, Thousands must drink the waves of death and woe, But the star Wormwood stains the heavens no more! Peace smiles at last; the Nation calls her sons To sheathe the sword; her battle-flag she furls, Speaks in glad thunders from unspotted guns, No terror shrouded in the smoke-wreath's curls.
O ye that fought for Freedom, living, dead, One sacred host of God's anointed Queen, For every holy, drop your veins have shed We breathe a welcome to our bowers of green! Welcome, ye living! from the foeman's gripe Your country's banner it was yours to wrest,-- Ah, many a forehead shows the banner-stripe, And stars, once crimson, hallow many a breast.
And ye, pale heroes, who from glory's bed Mark when your old battalions form in line, Move in their marching ranks with noiseless tread, And shape unheard the evening countersign, Come with your comrades, the returning brave; Shoulder to shoulder they await you here; These lent the life their martyr-brothers gave,-- Living and dead alike forever dear! EDWARD EVERETT "OUR FIRST CITIZEN" Read at the meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society, January 30, 1865.
WINTER'S cold drift lies glistening o'er his breast; For him no spring shall bid the leaf unfold What Love could speak, by sudden grief oppressed, What swiftly summoned Memory tell, is told.
Even as the bells, in one consenting chime, Filled with their sweet vibrations all the air, So joined all voices, in that mournful time, His genius, wisdom, virtues, to declare.
What place is left for words of measured praise, Till calm-eyed History, with her iron pen, Grooves in the unchanging rock the final phrase That shapes his image in the souls of men?
Yet while the echoes still repeat his name, While countless tongues his full-orbed life rehearse, Love, by his beating pulses taught, will claim The breath of song, the tuneful throb of verse,-- Verse that, in ever-changing ebb and flow, Moves, like the laboring heart, with rush and rest, Or swings in solemn cadence, sad and slow, Like the tired heaving of a grief-worn breast.
This was a mind so rounded, so complete, No partial gift of Nature in excess, That, like a single stream where many meet, Each separate talent counted something less.
A little hillock, if it lonely stand, Holds o'er the fields an undisputed reign; While the broad summit of the table-land Seems with its belt of clouds a level plain.
Servant of all his powers, that faithful slave, Unsleeping Memory, strengthening with his toils, To every ruder task his shoulder gave, And loaded every day with golden spoils.
Order, the law of Heaven, was throned supreme O'er action, instinct, impulse, feeling, thought; True as the dial's shadow to the beam, Each hour was equal to the charge it brought.
Too large his compass for the nicer skill That weighs the world of science grain by grain; All realms of knowledge owned the mastering will That claimed the franchise of its whole domain.
Earth, air, sea, sky, the elemental fire, Art, history, song,--what meanings lie in each Found in his cunning hand a stringless lyre, And poured their mingling music through his speech.
Thence flowed those anthems of our festal days, Whose ravishing division held apart The lips of listening throngs in sweet amaze, Moved in all breasts the selfsame human heart.
Subdued his accents, as of one who tries To press some care, some haunting sadness down; His smile half shadow; and to stranger eyes The kingly forehead wore an iron crown.
He was not armed to wrestle with the storm, To fight for homely truth with vulgar power; Grace looked from every feature, shaped his form, The rose of Academe,--the perfect flower! Such was the stately scholar whom we knew In those ill days of soul-enslaving calm, Before the blast of Northern vengeance blew Her snow-wreathed pine against the Southern palm.
Ah, God forgive us! did we hold too cheap The heart we might have known, but would not see, And look to find the nation's friend asleep Through the dread hour of her Gethsemane?
That wrong is past; we gave him up to Death With all a hero's honors round his name; As martyrs coin their blood, he coined his breath, And dimmed the scholar's in the patriot's fame.
So shall we blazon on the shaft we raise,-- Telling our grief, our pride, to unborn years,-- "He who had lived the mark of all men's praise Died with the tribute of a Nation's tears." SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION APRIL 23, 1864 "Who claims our Shakespeare from that realm unknown, Beyond the storm-vexed islands of the deep, Where Genoa's roving mariner was blown?
Her twofold Saint's-day let our England keep; Shall warring aliens share her holy task ?" The Old World echoes ask.
O land of Shakespeare! ours with all thy past, Till these last years that make the sea so wide; Think not the jar of battle's trumpet-blast Has dulled our aching sense to joyous pride In every noble word thy sons bequeathed The air our fathers breathed! War-wasted, haggard, panting from the strife, We turn to other days and far-off lands, Live o'er in dreams the Poet's faded life, Come with fresh lilies in our fevered hands To wreathe his bust, and scatter purple flowers,-- Not his the need, but ours! We call those poets who are first to mark Through earth's dull mist the coming of the dawn,-- Who see in twilight's gloom the first pale spark, While others only note that day is gone; For him the Lord of light the curtain rent That veils the firmament.
The greatest for its greatness is half known, Stretching beyond our narrow quadrant-lines,-- As in that world of Nature all outgrown Where Calaveras lifts his awful pines, And cast from Mariposa's mountain-wall Nevada's cataracts fall.
Yet heaven's remotest orb is partly ours, Throbbing its radiance like a beating heart; In the wide compass of angelic powers The instinct of the blindworm has its part; So in God's kingliest creature we behold The flower our buds infold.
With no vain praise we mock the stone-carved name Stamped once on dust that moved with pulse and breath, As thinking to enlarge that amplest fame Whose undimmed glories gild the night of death: We praise not star or sun; in these we see Thee, Father, only thee! Thy gifts are beauty, wisdom, power, and love: We read, we reverence on this human soul,-- Earth's clearest mirror of the light above,-- Plain as the record on thy prophet's scroll, When o'er his page the effluent splendors poured, Thine own "Thus saith the Lord!" This player was a prophet from on high, Thine own elected.

Statesman, poet, sage, For him thy sovereign pleasure passed them by; Sidney's fair youth, and Raleigh's ripened age, Spenser's chaste soul, and his imperial mind Who taught and shamed mankind.
Therefore we bid our hearts' Te Deum rise, Nor fear to make thy worship less divine, And hear the shouted choral shake the skies, Counting all glory, power, and wisdom thine; For thy great gift thy greater name adore, And praise thee evermore! In this dread hour of Nature's utmost need, Thanks for these unstained drops of freshening dew! Oh, while our martyrs fall, our heroes bleed, Keep us to every sweet remembrance true, Till from this blood-red sunset springs new-born Our Nation's second morn! IN MEMORY OF JOHN AND ROBERT WARE Read at the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Medical Society, May 25, 1864.
No mystic charm, no mortal art, Can bid our loved companions stay; The bands that clasp them to our heart Snap in death's frost and fall apart; Like shadows fading with the day, They pass away.
The young are stricken in their pride, The old, long tottering, faint and fall; Master and scholar, side by side, Through the dark portals silent glide, That open in life's mouldering wall And close on all.
Our friend's, our teacher's task was done, When Mercy called him from on high; A little cloud had dimmed the sun, The saddening hours had just begun, And darker days were drawing nigh: 'T was time to die.
A whiter soul, a fairer mind, A life with purer course and aim, A gentler eye, a voice more kind, We may not look on earth to find.
The love that lingers o'er his name Is more than fame.
These blood-red summers ripen fast; The sons are older than the sires; Ere yet the tree to earth is cast, The sapling falls before the blast; Life's ashes keep their covered fires,-- Its flame expires.
Struck by the noiseless, viewless foe, Whose deadlier breath than shot or shell Has laid the best and bravest low, His boy, all bright in morning's glow, That high-souled youth he loved so well, Untimely fell.
Yet still he wore his placid smile, And, trustful in the cheering creed That strives all sorrow to beguile, Walked calmly on his way awhile Ah, breast that leans on breaking reed Must ever bleed! So they both left us, sire and son, With opening leaf, with laden bough The youth whose race was just begun, The wearied man whose course was run, Its record written on his brow, Are brothers now.
Brothers!--The music of the sound Breathes softly through my closing strain; The floor we tread is holy ground, Those gentle spirits hovering round, While our fair circle joins again Its broken chain.
1864.
HUMBOLDT'S BIRTHDAY CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, SEPTEMBER 14, 1869 BONAPARTE, AUGUST 15, 1769.-HUMBOLDT, SEPTEMBER 14, 1769 ERE yet the warning chimes of midnight sound, Set back the flaming index of the year, Track the swift-shifting seasons in their round Through fivescore circles of the swinging sphere! Lo, in yon islet of the midland sea That cleaves the storm-cloud with its snowy crest, The embryo-heir of Empires yet to be, A month-old babe upon his mother's breast.
Those little hands that soon shall grow so strong In their rude grasp great thrones shall rock and fall, Press her soft bosom, while a nursery song Holds the world's master in its slender thrall.
Look! a new crescent bends its silver bow; A new-lit star has fired the eastern sky; Hark! by the river where the lindens blow A waiting household hears an infant's cry.
This, too, a conqueror! His the vast domain, Wider than widest sceptre-shadowed lands; Earth and the weltering kingdom of the main Laid their broad charters in his royal hands.
His was no taper lit in cloistered cage, Its glimmer borrowed from the grove or porch; He read the record of the planet's page By Etna's glare and Cotopaxi's torch.
He heard the voices of the pathless woods; On the salt steppes he saw the starlight shine; He scaled the mountain's windy solitudes, And trod the galleries of the breathless mine.
For him no fingering of the love-strung lyre, No problem vague, by torturing schoolmen vexed; He fed no broken altar's dying fire, Nor skulked and scowled behind a Rabbi's text.
For God's new truth he claimed the kingly robe That priestly shoulders counted all their own, Unrolled the gospel of the storied globe And led young Science to her empty throne.
While the round planet on its axle spins One fruitful year shall boast its double birth, And show the cradles of its mighty twins, Master and Servant of the sons of earth.
Which wears the garland that shall never fade, Sweet with fair memories that can never die?
Ask not the marbles where their bones are laid, But bow thine ear to hear thy brothers' cry:-- "Tear up the despot's laurels by the root, Like mandrakes, shrieking as they quit the soil! Feed us no more upon the blood-red fruit That sucks its crimson from the heart of Toil! "We claim the food that fixed our mortal fate,-- Bend to our reach the long-forbidden tree! The angel frowned at Eden's eastern gate,-- Its western portal is forever free! "Bring the white blossoms of the waning year, Heap with full hands the peaceful conqueror's shrine Whose bloodless triumphs cost no sufferer's tear! Hero of knowledge, be our tribute thine!" POEM AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HALLECK MONUMENT, JULY 8, 1869 SAY not the Poet dies! Though in the dust he lies, He cannot forfeit his melodious breath, Unsphered by envious death! Life drops the voiceless myriads from its roll; Their fate he cannot share, Who, in the enchanted air Sweet with the lingering strains that Echo stole, Has left his dearer self, the music of his soul! We o'er his turf may raise Our notes of feeble praise, And carve with pious care for after eyes The stone with "Here he lies;" He for himself has built a nobler shrine, Whose walls of stately rhyme Roll back the tides of time, While o'er their gates the gleaming tablets shine That wear his name inwrought with many a golden line! Call not our Poet dead, Though on his turf we tread! Green is the wreath their brows so long have worn,-- The minstrels of the morn, Who, while the Orient burned with new-born flame, Caught that celestial fire And struck a Nation's lyre These taught the western winds the poet's name; Theirs the first opening buds, the maiden flowers of fame! Count not our Poet dead! The stars shall watch his bed, The rose of June its fragrant life renew His blushing mound to strew, And all the tuneful throats of summer swell With trills as crystal-clear As when he wooed the ear Of the young muse that haunts each wooded dell, With songs of that "rough land" he loved so long and well! He sleeps; he cannot die! As evening's long-drawn sigh, Lifting the rose-leaves on his peaceful mound, Spreads all their sweets around, So, laden with his song, the breezes blow From where the rustling sedge Frets our rude ocean's edge To the smooth sea beyond the peaks of snow.
His soul the air enshrines and leaves but dust below! HYMN FOR THE CELEBRATION AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNERSTONE OF HARVARD MEMORIAL HALL, CAMBRIDGE, OCTOBER 6, 1870 NOT with the anguish of hearts that are breaking Come we as mourners to weep for our dead; Grief in our breasts has grown weary of aching, Green is the turf where our tears we have shed.
While o'er their marbles the mosses are creeping, Stealing each name and its legend away, Give their proud story to Memory's keeping, Shrined in the temple we hallow to-day.
Hushed are their battle-fields, ended their marches, Deaf are their ears to the drum-beat of morn,-- Rise from the sod, ye fair columns and arches Tell their bright deeds to the ages unborn! Emblem and legend may fade from the portal, Keystone may crumble and pillar may fall; They were the builders whose work is immortal, Crowned with the dome that is over us all! HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF MEMORIAL HALL AT CAMBRIDGE, JUNE 23, 1874 WHERE, girt around by savage foes, Our nurturing Mother's shelter rose, Behold, the lofty temple stands, Reared by her children's grateful hands! Firm are the pillars that defy The volleyed thunders of the sky; Sweet are the summer wreaths that twine With bud and flower our martyrs' shrine.
The hues their tattered colors bore Fall mingling on the sunlit floor Till evening spreads her spangled pall, And wraps in shade the storied hall.
Firm were their hearts in danger's hour, Sweet was their manhood's morning flower, Their hopes with rainbow hues were bright,-- How swiftly winged the sudden night! O Mother! on thy marble page Thy children read, from age to age, The mighty word that upward leads Through noble thought to nobler deeds.
TRUTH, heaven-born TRUTH, their fearless guide, Thy saints have lived, thy heroes died; Our love has reared their earthly shrine, Their glory be forever thine! HYMN AT THE FUNERAL SERVICES OF CHARLES SUMNER, APRIL 29, 1874 SUNG BY MALE VOICES TO A NATIONAL AIR OF HOLLAND ONCE more, ye sacred towers, Your solemn dirges sound; Strew, loving hands, the April flowers, Once more to deck his mound.
A nation mourns its dead, Its sorrowing voices one, As Israel's monarch bowed his head And cried, "My son! My son!" Why mourn for him ?--For him The welcome angel came Ere yet his eye with age was dim Or bent his stately frame; His weapon still was bright, His shield was lifted high To slay the wrong, to save the right,-- What happier hour to die?
Thou orderest all things well; Thy servant's work was done; He lived to hear Oppression's knell, The shouts for Freedom won.
Hark!! from the opening skies The anthem's echoing swell,-- "O mourning Land, lift up thine eyes! God reigneth.

All is well!" RHYMES OF AN HOUR ADDRESS FOR THE OPENING OF THE FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE, NEW YORK, DECEMBER 3, 1873 HANG out our banners on the stately tower It dawns at last--the long-expected hour I The steep is climbed, the star-lit summit won, The builder's task, the artist's labor done; Before the finished work the herald stands, And asks the verdict of your lips and hands! Shall rosy daybreak make us all forget The golden sun that yester-evening set?
Fair was the fabric doomed to pass away Ere the last headaches born of New Year's Day; With blasting breath the fierce destroyer came And wrapped the victim in his robes of flame; The pictured sky with redder morning blushed, With scorching streams the naiad's fountain gushed, With kindling mountains glowed the funeral pyre, Forests ablaze and rivers all on fire,-- The scenes dissolved, the shrivelling curtain fell,-- Art spread her wings and sighed a long farewell! Mourn o'er the Player's melancholy plight,-- Falstaff in tears, Othello deadly white,-- Poor Romeo reckoning what his doublet cost, And Juliet whimpering for her dresses lost,-- Their wardrobes burned, their salaries all undrawn, Their cues cut short, their occupation gone! "Lie there in dust," the red-winged demon cried, "Wreck of the lordly city's hope and pride!" Silent they stand, and stare with vacant gaze, While o'er the embers leaps the fitful blaze; When, to! a hand, before the startled train, Writes in the ashes, "It shall rise again,-- Rise and confront its elemental foes!" The word was spoken, and the walls arose, And ere the seasons round their brief career The new-born temple waits the unborn year.
Ours was the toil of many a weary day Your smiles, your plaudits, only can repay; We are the monarchs of the painted scenes, You, you alone the real Kings and Queens! Lords of the little kingdom where we meet, We lay our gilded sceptres at your feet, Place in your grasp our portal's silvered keys With one brief utterance: We have tried to please.
Tell us, ye sovereigns of the new domain, Are you content-or have we toiled in vain?
With no irreverent glances look around The realm you rule, for this is haunted ground! Here stalks the Sorcerer, here the Fairy trips, Here limps the Witch with malice-working lips, The Graces here their snowy arms entwine, Here dwell the fairest sisters of the Nine,-- She who, with jocund voice and twinkling eye, Laughs at the brood of follies as they fly; She of the dagger and the deadly bowl, Whose charming horrors thrill the trembling soul; She who, a truant from celestial spheres, In mortal semblance now and then appears, Stealing the fairest earthly shape she can-- Sontag or Nilsson, Lind or Malibran; With these the spangled houri of the dance,-- What shaft so dangerous as her melting glance, As poised in air she spurns the earth below, And points aloft her heavenly-minded toe! What were our life, with all its rents and seams, Stripped of its purple robes, our waking dreams?
The poet's song, the bright romancer's page, The tinselled shows that cheat us on the stage Lead all our fancies captive at their will; Three years or threescore, we are children still.
The little listener on his father's knee, With wandering Sindbad ploughs the stormy sea, With Gotham's sages hears the billows roll (Illustrious trio of the venturous bowl, Too early shipwrecked, for they died too soon To see their offspring launch the great balloon); Tracks the dark brigand to his mountain lair, Slays the grim giant, saves the lady fair, Fights all his country's battles o'er again From Bunker's blazing height to Lundy's Lane; Floats with the mighty captains as they sailed, Before whose flag the flaming red-cross paled, And claims the oft-told story of the scars Scarce yet grown white, that saved the stripes and stars! Children of later growth, we love the PLAY, We love its heroes, be they grave or gay, From squeaking, peppery, devil-defying Punch To roaring Richard with his camel-hunch; Adore its heroines, those immortal dames, Time's only rivals, whom he never tames, Whose youth, unchanging, lives while thrones decay (Age spares the Pyramids-and Dejazet); The saucy-aproned, razor-tongued soubrette, The blond-haired beauty with the eyes of jet, The gorgeous Beings whom the viewless wires Lift to the skies in strontian-crimsoned fires, And all the wealth of splendor that awaits The throng that enters those Elysian gates.
See where the hurrying crowd impatient pours, With noise of trampling feet and flapping doors, Streams to the numbered seat each pasteboard fits And smooths its caudal plumage as it sits; Waits while the slow musicians saunter in, Till the bald leader taps his violin; Till the old overture we know so well, Zampa or Magic Flute or William Tell, Has done its worst-then hark! the tinkling bell! The crash is o'er--the crinkling curtain furled, And to! the glories of that brighter world! Behold the offspring of the Thespian cart, This full-grown temple of the magic art, Where all the conjurers of illusion meet, And please us all the more, the more they cheat.
These are the wizards and the witches too Who win their honest bread by cheating you With cheeks that drown in artificial tears And lying skull-caps white with seventy years, Sweet-tempered matrons changed to scolding Kates, Maids mild as moonbeams crazed with murderous hates, Kind, simple souls that stab and slash and slay And stick at nothing, if it 's in the play! Would all the world told half as harmless lies! Would all its real fools were half as wise As he who blinks through dull Dundreary's eyes I Would all the unhanged bandits of the age Were like the peaceful ruffians of the stage! Would all the cankers wasting town and state, The mob of rascals, little thieves and great, Dealers in watered milk and watered stocks, Who lead us lambs to pasture on the rocks,-- Shepherds--Jack Sheppards--of their city flocks,-- The rings of rogues that rob the luckless town, Those evil angels creeping up and down The Jacob's ladder of the treasury stairs,-- Not stage, but real Turpins and Macaires,-- Could doff, like us, their knavery with their clothes, And find it easy as forgetting oaths! Welcome, thrice welcome to our virgin dome, The Muses' shrine, the Drama's new-found home Here shall the Statesman rest his weary brain, The worn-out Artist find his wits again; Here Trade forget his ledger and his cares, And sweet communion mingle Bulls and Bears; Here shall the youthful Lover, nestling near The shrinking maiden, her he holds most dear, Gaze on the mimic moonlight as it falls On painted groves, on sliding canvas walls, And sigh, "My angel! What a life of bliss We two could live in such a world as this!" Here shall the timid pedants of the schools, The gilded boors, the labor-scorning fools, The grass-green rustic and the smoke-dried cit, Feel each in turn the stinging lash of wit, And as it tingles on some tender part Each find a balsam in his neighbor's smart; So every folly prove a fresh delight As in the picture of our play to-night.
Farewell! The Players wait the Prompter's call; Friends, lovers, listeners! Welcome one and all! A SEA DIALOGUE Cabin Passenger.

Man at Wheel.
CABIN PASSENGER.
FRIEND, you seem thoughtful.