"Then pity take for fair Freedom's sake," cried the mourn

ers once again;

'Her favorite was Leonidas, with his band of Spartan men; Did not his art to them impart life's breath, that France might

see

What a patriot few in the gap could do at old Thermopyla? Oft by that sight for the coming fight was the youthful bosom fired!

Let his passport be the memory of the valor he inspired."

"Ye cannot pass, 99 Soldier, alas! a dismal boon we crave; Say, is there not some lonely spot where his friends may dig a

grave?

O, pity take, for that hero's sake whom he gloried to portray
With crown and palm at Notre Dame on his coronation day.
Amid that band the withered hand of an aged pontiff rose,
And blessing shed on the conqueror's head, forgiving his own

woes;

He drew that scene nor dreamed, I ween, that yet a little while And the hero's doom would be a tomb far off in a lonely isle !''

"I am charged, alas! not to let you pass,

sentinelle;

"His destiny must also be a foreign grave!"

" said the sorrowing

""T is well!

Hard is our fate to supplicate for his bones a place of rest,
And to bear away his banished clay from the land that he loved

best.

But let us hence! sad recompense for the lustre that he cast, Blending the rays of modern days with the glories of the past! Our sons will read with shame this deed (unless my mind doth err);

And a future age make pilgrimage to the painter's sepulchre !" FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER PROUT) (From the French of Beranger).

BAYARD TAYLOR

"AND where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend ?"
My sister asked our guest one winter's day.
Smiling he answered in the Friends' sweet way
Common to both: "Wherever thou shalt send!

What wouldst thou have me see for thee ?" She laughed,
Her dark eyes dancing in the wood-fire's glow :
"Loffoden isles, the Kilpis, and the low

Unsetting sun on Finmark's fishing-craft."
"All these and more I soon shall see for thee ! "

He answered cheerily and he kept his pledge
On Lapland's snow, the North Cape's windy wedge,
And Tromso freezing in its winter sea.

He went and came. But no man knows the track
Of his last journey, and he comes not back!

The Arab's tent

He brought us wonders of the new and old;
We shared all climes with him.
To him its story-telling secret lent,
And, pleased, we listened to the tales he told.
His task, beguiled with songs that shall endure,
In manly, honest thoroughness he wrought;
From humble home-lays to the heights of thought
Slowly he climbed, but every step was sure.
How, with the generous pride that friendship hath,
We, who so loved him, saw at last the crown
Of civic honor on his brows pressed down,
Rejoiced, and knew not that the gift was death.
And now for him, whose praise in deafened ears
Two nations speak, we answer but with tears!

O Vale of Chester! trod by him so oft,

Green as thy June turf keep his memory. Let
Nor wood, nor dell, nor storied stream forget,
Nor winds that blow round lonely Cedarcroft;
Let the home voices greet him in the far,

Strange land that holds him; let the messages
Of love pursue him o'er the chartless seas
And unmapped vastness of his unknown star!
Love's language, heard beyond the loud discourse
Of perishable fame, in every sphere
Itself interprets; and its utterance here
Somewhere in God's unfolding universe
Shall reach our traveller, softening the surprise

Of his rapt gaze on unfamiliar skies.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

HORACE GREELEY

EARTH, let thy softest mantle rest

On this worn child to thee returning,
Whose youth was nurtured at thy breast,
Who loved thee with such tender yearning.
He knew thy fields and woodland ways,
And deemed thy humblest son his brother ;-
Asleep, beyond our blame or praise,

We yield him back, O gentle Mother!

Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill;
Who has not read the life-long story?
And dear we hold his fame, but still
The man was dearer than his glory.
And now to us are left alone

The closet where his shadow lingers,
The vacant chair that was a throne, -

The pen just fallen from his fingers.

Wrath changed to kindness on that pen,
Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey;
One flash from out the cloud, and then
The skies with smile and jest were sunny.
Of hate he surely lacked the art,

Who made his enemy his lover:

O reverend head, and Christian heart!

Where now their like the round world over?

He saw the goodness, not the taint,
In many a poor, do-nothing creature,
And gave to sinner and to saint,

But kept his faith in human nature;
Perchance he was not worldly wise,

Yet we who noted, standing nearer, The shrewd, kind twinkle in his eyes, For every weakness held him dearer.

Alas, that unto him who gave

So much, so little should be given ! Himself alone he might not save,

Of all for whom his hands had striven. Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed ; Men took, and passed, and left him lonely; What marvel if, beneath his load,

At times he craved for justice only.

Yet thanklessness, the serpent's tooth,
His lofty purpose could not alter ;
Toil had no power to bend his youth,
Or make his lusty manhood falter;
From envy's sling, from slander's dart,
That armored soul the body shielded,
Till one dark sorrow chilled his heart,
And then he bowed his head and yielded.

Now, now, we measure at its worth

The gracious presence gone forever! The wrinkled East, that gave him birth, Laments with every laboring river;

Wild moan the free winds of the West
For him who gathered to her prairies
The sons of men, and made each crest
The haunt of happy household fairies;

And anguish sits upon the mouth

Of her who came to know him latest :
His heart was ever thine, O South!

He was thy truest friend, and greatest!
He shunned thee in thy splendid shame,
He stayed thee in thy voiceless sorrow;
The day thou shalt forget his name,

Fair South, can have no sadder morrow.

The tears that fall from eyes unused,
The hands above his grave united,
The words of men whose lips he loosed,

Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted,―
Could he but know, and rest with this!

Yet stay, through Death's low-lying hollow,
His one last foe's insatiate hiss

On that benignant shade would follow!

Peace! while we shroud this man of men,
Let no unhallowed word be spoken!
He will not answer thee again,

His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken.
Some holier cause, some vaster trust
Beyond the veil, he doth inherit :

O gently, Earth, receive his dust,

And Heaven soothe his troubled spirit!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD

BLOOM'D

[ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN]

WHEN lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,

And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourned, and yet shall mourn with ever returning spring.

O ever returning Spring! trinity sure to me you bring;
Lilac, blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

O powerful, western, fallen star!

O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!

O great star disappear'd! O the black murk that hides the

star!

O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul !

In the dooryard fronting an old farmhouse, near the whitewash'd palings,

Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,

With every leaf a miracle . . . and from this bush in the dooryard,

With delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

A sprig, with its flower, I break.

In the swamp, in secluded recesses,

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary the thrush, The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song. Song of the bleeding throat!

Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother, I know
If thou wast not gifted to sing thou wouldst surely die).

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes, and through old woods (where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris); Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes - passing the endless grass;

Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;

Passing the apple tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,

Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inloop'd flags, with the cities draped in

black,

With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil'd women, standing,

With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the

night,

With the countless torches lit with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn ;