S., AT DEER ISLAND ON THE MERRIMAC BURNING DRIFT-WOOD.
O.W.HOLMES ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL HAVERHILL.

1640-1890 To G.G.
PRESTON POWERS, INSCRIPTION FOR BASS-RELIEF LYDIA H.SIGOURNEY, INSCRIPTION ON TABLET MILTON, ON MEMORIAL WINDOW THE BIRTHDAY WREATH THE WIND OF MARCH BETWEEN THE GATES THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, 8TH Mo.

29TH, 1892 NOTE.

The portrait prefacing this volume is from an engraving on steel by J.A.J.WILCOX in 1888, after a photograph taken by Miss ISA E.GRAY in July, 1885.
A LAMENT "The parted spirit, Knoweth it not our sorrow?
Answereth not Its blessing to our tears ?" The circle is broken, one seat is forsaken, One bud from the tree of our friendship is shaken; One heart from among us no longer shall thrill With joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill.
Weep! lonely and lowly are slumbering now The light of her glances, the pride of her brow; Weep! sadly and long shall we listen in vain To hear the soft tones of her welcome again.
Give our tears to the dead! For humanity's claim From its silence and darkness is ever the same; The hope of that world whose existence is bliss May not stifle the tears of the mourners of this.
For, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can throw On the scene of its troubled probation below, Than the pride of the marble, the pomp of the dead, To that glance will be dearer the tears which we shed.
Oh, who can forget the mild light of her smile, Over lips moved with music and feeling the while, The eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like, and clear, In the glow of its gladness, the shade of its tear.
And the charm of her features, while over the whole Played the hues of the heart and the sunshine of soul; And the tones of her voice, like the music which seems Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams! But holier and dearer our memories hold Those treasures of feeling, more precious than gold, The love and the kindness and pity which gave Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave! The heart ever open to Charity's claim, Unmoved from its purpose by censure and blame, While vainly alike on her eye and her ear Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer.
How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper, Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay, With warnings in love to the passing astray.
For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem; And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove, And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love.
As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven, As a star that is lost when the daylight is given, As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss, She hath passed to the world of the holy from this.
1834.
TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B.STORRS, Late President of Western Reserve College, who died at his post of duty, overworn by his strenuous labors with tongue and pen in the cause of Human Freedom.
Thou hast fallen in thine armor, Thou martyr of the Lord With thy last breath crying "Onward!" And thy hand upon the sword.
The haughty heart derideth, And the sinful lip reviles, But the blessing of the perishing Around thy pillow smiles! When to our cup of trembling The added drop is given, And the long-suspended thunder Falls terribly from Heaven,-- When a new and fearful freedom Is proffered of the Lord To the slow-consuming Famine, The Pestilence and Sword! When the refuges of Falsehood Shall be swept away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken, With its idol, to the earth, Shall not thy words of warning Be all remembered then?
And thy now unheeded message Burn in the hearts of men?
Oppression's hand may scatter Its nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosoms Deny thy memory room; For lying lips shall torture Thy mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourish As the bay-tree for a time.
But where the south-wind lingers On Carolina's pines, Or falls the careless sunbeam Down Georgia's golden mines; Where now beneath his burthen The toiling slave is driven; Where now a tyrant's mockery Is offered unto Heaven; Where Mammon hath its altars Wet o'er with human blood, And pride and lust debases The workmanship of God,-- There shall thy praise be spoken, Redeemed from Falsehood's ban, When the fetters shall be broken, And the slave shall be a man! Joy to thy spirit, brother! A thousand hearts are warm, A thousand kindred bosoms Are baring to the storm.
What though red-handed Violence With secret Fraud combine?
The wall of fire is round us, Our Present Help was thine.
Lo, the waking up of nations, From Slavery's fatal sleep; The murmur of a Universe, Deep calling unto Deep! Joy to thy spirit, brother! On every wind of heaven The onward cheer and summons Of Freedom's voice is given! Glory to God forever! Beyond the despot's will The soul of Freedom liveth Imperishable still.
The words which thou hast uttered Are of that soul a part, And the good seed thou hast scattered Is springing from the heart.
In the evil days before us, And the trials yet to come, In the shadow of the prison, Or the cruel martyrdom,-- We will think of thee, O brother! And thy sainted name shall be In the blessing of the captive, And the anthem of the free.
1834 LINES ON THE DEATH OF S.OLIVER TORREY, SECRETARY OF THE BOSTON YOUNG MEN'S ANTI-SLAVERY SOCIETY.
Gone before us, O our brother, To the spirit-land! Vainly look we for another In thy place to stand.
Who shall offer youth and beauty On the wasting shrine Of a stern and lofty duty, With a faith like thine?
Oh, thy gentle smile of greeting Who again shall see?
Who amidst the solemn meeting Gaze again on thee?
Who when peril gathers o'er us, Wear so calm a brow?
Who, with evil men before us, So serene as thou?
Early hath the spoiler found thee, Brother of our love! Autumn's faded earth around thee, And its storms above! Evermore that turf lie lightly, And, with future showers, O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightly Blow the summer flowers In the locks thy forehead gracing, Not a silvery streak; Nor a line of sorrow's tracing On thy fair young cheek; Eyes of light and lips of roses, Such as Hylas wore,-- Over all that curtain closes, Which shall rise no more! Will the vigil Love is keeping Round that grave of thine, Mournfully, like Jazer weeping Over Sibmah's vine; Will the pleasant memories, swelling Gentle hearts, of thee, In the spirit's distant dwelling All unheeded be?
If the spirit ever gazes, From its journeyings, back; If the immortal ever traces O'er its mortal track; Wilt thou not, O brother, meet us Sometimes on our way, And, in hours of sadness, greet us As a spirit may?
Peace be with thee, O our brother, In the spirit-land Vainly look we for another In thy place to stand.
Unto Truth and Freedom giving All thy early powers, Be thy virtues with the living, And thy spirit ours! 1837.
TO -- ----, WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL.
"Get the writings of John Woolman by heart."-- Essays of Elia.
Maiden! with the fair brown tresses Shading o'er thy dreamy eye, Floating on thy thoughtful forehead Cloud wreaths of its sky.
Youthful years and maiden beauty, Joy with them should still abide,-- Instinct take the place of Duty, Love, not Reason, guide.
Ever in the New rejoicing, Kindly beckoning back the Old, Turning, with the gift of Midas, All things into gold.
And the passing shades of sadness Wearing even a welcome guise, As, when some bright lake lies open To the sunny skies, Every wing of bird above it, Every light cloud floating on, Glitters like that flashing mirror In the self-same sun.
But upon thy youthful forehead Something like a shadow lies; And a serious soul is looking From thy earnest eyes.
With an early introversion, Through the forms of outward things, Seeking for the subtle essence, And the bidden springs.
Deeper than the gilded surface Hath thy wakeful vision seen, Farther than the narrow present Have thy journeyings been.
Thou hast midst Life's empty noises Heard the solemn steps of Time, And the low mysterious voices Of another clime.
All the mystery of Being Hath upon thy spirit pressed,-- Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer, Find no place of rest: That which mystic Plato pondered, That which Zeno heard with awe, And the star-rapt Zoroaster In his night-watch saw.
From the doubt and darkness springing Of the dim, uncertain Past, Moving to the dark still shadows O'er the Future cast, Early hath Life's mighty question Thrilled within thy heart of youth, With a deep and strong beseeching What and where is Truth?
Hollow creed and ceremonial, Whence the ancient life hath fled, Idle faith unknown to action, Dull and cold and dead.
Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings Only wake a quiet scorn,-- Not from these thy seeking spirit Hath its answer drawn.
But, like some tired child at even, On thy mother Nature's breast, Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking Truth, and peace, and rest.
O'er that mother's rugged features Thou art throwing Fancy's veil, Light and soft as woven moonbeams, Beautiful and frail O'er the rough chart of Existence, Rocks of sin and wastes of woe, Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble, And cool fountains flow.
And to thee an answer cometh From the earth and from the sky, And to thee the hills and waters And the stars reply.
But a soul-sufficing answer Hath no outward origin; More than Nature's many voices May be heard within.
Even as the great Augustine Questioned earth and sea and sky, And the dusty tomes of learning And old poesy.
But his earnest spirit needed More than outward Nature taught; More than blest the poet's vision Or the sage's thought.
Only in the gathered silence Of a calm and waiting frame, Light and wisdom as from Heaven To the seeker came.
Not to ease and aimless quiet Doth that inward answer tend, But to works of love and duty As our being's end; Not to idle dreams and trances, Length of face, and solemn tone, But to Faith, in daily striving And performance shown.
Earnest toil and strong endeavor Of a spirit which within Wrestles with familiar evil And besetting sin; And without, with tireless vigor, Steady heart, and weapon strong, In the power of truth assailing Every form of wrong.
Guided thus, how passing lovely Is the track of Woolman's feet! And his brief and simple record How serenely sweet! O'er life's humblest duties throwing Light the earthling never knew, Freshening all its dark waste places As with Hermon's dew.
All which glows in Pascal's pages, All which sainted Guion sought, Or the blue-eyed German Rahel Half-unconscious taught Beauty, such as Goethe pictured, Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed Living warmth and starry brightness Round that poor man's head.
Not a vain and cold ideal, Not a poet's dream alone, But a presence warm and real, Seen and felt and known.
When the red right-hand of slaughter Moulders with the steel it swung, When the name of seer and poet Dies on Memory's tongue, All bright thoughts and pure shall gather Round that meek and suffering one,-- Glorious, like the seer-seen angel Standing in the sun! Take the good man's book and ponder What its pages say to thee; Blessed as the hand of healing May its lesson be.
If it only serves to strengthen Yearnings for a higher good, For the fount of living waters And diviner food; If the pride of human reason Feels its meek and still rebuke, Quailing like the eye of Peter From the Just One's look! If with readier ear thou heedest What the Inward Teacher saith, Listening with a willing spirit And a childlike faith,-- Thou mayst live to bless the giver, Who, himself but frail and weak, Would at least the highest welfare Of another seek; And his gift, though poor and lowly It may seem to other eyes, Yet may prove an angel holy In a pilgrim's guise.
1840.
LEGGETT'S MONUMENT.
William Leggett, who died in 1839 at the age of thirty-seven, was the intrepid editor of the New York Evening Post and afterward of The Plain Dealer.

His vigorous assault upon the system of slavery brought down upon him the enmity of political defenders of the system.
"Ye build the tombs of the prophets."-- Holy Writ.
Yes, pile the marble o'er him! It is well That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, And planted in the pathway of his life The ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell, Who clamored down the bold reformer when He pleaded for his captive fellow-men, Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought Within thy walls, St.Tammany, to bind In party chains the free and honest thought, The angel utterance of an upright mind, Well is it now that o'er his grave ye raise The stony tribute of your tardy praise, For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame Of the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame! 1841.
TO A FRIEND, ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE.
How smiled the land of France Under thy blue eye's glance, Light-hearted rover Old walls of chateaux gray, Towers of an early day, Which the Three Colors play Flauntingly over.
Now midst the brilliant train Thronging the banks of Seine Now midst the splendor Of the wild Alpine range, Waking with change on change Thoughts in thy young heart strange, Lovely, and tender.
Vales, soft Elysian, Like those in the vision Of Mirza, when, dreaming, He saw the long hollow dell, Touched by the prophet's spell, Into an ocean swell With its isles teeming.
Cliffs wrapped in snows of years, Splintering with icy spears Autumn's blue heaven Loose rock and frozen slide, Hung on the mountain-side, Waiting their hour to glide Downward, storm-driven! Rhine-stream, by castle old, Baron's and robber's hold, Peacefully flowing; Sweeping through vineyards green, Or where the cliffs are seen O'er the broad wave between Grim shadows throwing.
Or, where St.Peter's dome Swells o'er eternal Rome, Vast, dim, and solemn; Hymns ever chanting low, Censers swung to and fro, Sable stoles sweeping slow Cornice and column! Oh, as from each and all Will there not voices call Evermore back again?
In the mind's gallery Wilt thou not always see Dim phantoms beckon thee O'er that old track again?
New forms thy presence haunt, New voices softly chant, New faces greet thee! Pilgrims from many a shrine Hallowed by poet's line, At memory's magic sign, Rising to meet thee.
And when such visions come Unto thy olden home, Will they not waken Deep thoughts of Him whose hand Led thee o'er sea and land Back to the household band Whence thou wast taken?
While, at the sunset time, Swells the cathedral's chime, Yet, in thy dreaming, While to thy spirit's eye Yet the vast mountains lie Piled in the Switzer's sky, Icy and gleaming: Prompter of silent prayer, Be the wild picture there In the mind's chamber, And, through each coming day Him who, as staff and stay, Watched o'er thy wandering way, Freshly remember.
So, when the call shall be Soon or late unto thee, As to all given, Still may that picture live, All its fair forms survive, And to thy spirit give Gladness in Heaven! 1841 LUCY HOOPER.
Lucy Hooper died at Brooklyn, L.I., on the 1st of 8th mo., 1841, aged twenty-four years.
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead, The twilight of a parted day Whose fading light is cold and vain, The heart's faint echo of a strain Of low, sweet music passed away.
That true and loving heart, that gift Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound, Bestowing, with a glad unthrift, Its sunny light on all around, Affinities which only could Cleave to the pure, the true, and good; And sympathies which found no rest, Save with the loveliest and best.
Of them--of thee--remains there naught But sorrow in the mourner's breast?
A shadow in the land of thought?
No! Even my weak and trembling faith Can lift for thee the veil which doubt And human fear have drawn about The all-awaiting scene of death.
Even as thou wast I see thee still; And, save the absence of all ill And pain and weariness, which here Summoned the sigh or wrung the tear, The same as when, two summers back, Beside our childhood's Merrimac, I saw thy dark eye wander o'er Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore, And heard thy low, soft voice alone Midst lapse of waters, and the tone Of pine-leaves by the west-wind blown, There's not a charm of soul or brow, Of all we knew and loved in thee, But lives in holier beauty now, Baptized in immortality! Not mine the sad and freezing dream Of souls that, with their earthly mould, Cast off the loves and joys of old, Unbodied, like a pale moonbeam, As pure, as passionless, and cold; Nor mine the hope of Indra's son, Of slumbering in oblivion's rest, Life's myriads blending into one, In blank annihilation blest; Dust-atoms of the infinite, Sparks scattered from the central light, And winning back through mortal pain Their old unconsciousness again.
No! I have friends in Spirit Land, Not shadows in a shadowy band, Not others, but themselves are they.
And still I think of them the same As when the Master's summons came; Their change,--the holy morn-light breaking Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking,-- A change from twilight into day.
They 've laid thee midst the household graves, Where father, brother, sister lie; Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, Above thee bends the summer sky.
Thy own loved church in sadness read Her solemn ritual o'er thy head, And blessed and hallowed with her prayer The turf laid lightly o'er thee there.
That church, whose rites and liturgy, Sublime and old, were truth to thee, Undoubted to thy bosom taken, As symbols of a faith unshaken.
Even I, of simpler views, could feel The beauty of thy trust and zeal; And, owning not thy creed, could see How deep a truth it seemed to thee, And how thy fervent heart had thrown O'er all, a coloring of its own, And kindled up, intense and warm, A life in every rite and form, As.