"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 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, 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 ?" What wouldst thou have me see for thee ?" She laughed, Unsetting sun on Finmark's fishing-craft." He answered cheerily and he kept his pledge He went and came. But no man knows the track The Arab's tent He brought us wonders of the new and old; O Vale of Chester! trod by him so oft, Green as thy June turf keep his memory. Let Strange land that holds him; let the messages 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, We yield him back, O gentle Mother! Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill; The closet where his shadow lingers, The pen just fallen from his fingers. Wrath changed to kindness on that pen, 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, But kept his faith in human nature; 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, 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 And anguish sits upon the mouth Of her who came to know him latest : He was thy truest friend, and greatest! Fair South, can have no sadder morrow. The tears that fall from eyes unused, Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted,― Yet stay, through Death's low-lying hollow, On that benignant shade would follow! Peace! while we shroud this man of men, His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken. 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, O ever returning Spring! trinity sure to me you bring; 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 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; 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 ; |