'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition

He is gone, with his hand on the pen,
Who was wisest and best among men,
Who moved us to laughter and tears,
Who kindled our passions and fears—
He bowed not, but breaking he fell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone with the roses of June,
Like a song that is sacred of tune,
Or old cadences homely and sweet,
Laid low in his fame at our feet.
To his Florence and Agnes and Nell,
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone in his beautiful prime,
Who was splendid with spoils of a time,
Who was used with enchantments to sing,
As a poet, a preacher, a king.
To the children who charmed with the spell,
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone to the dreamland of rest,
To the place of the perfect and blest;
With the laugh on his lip not expired,
And his eye by imaginings fired.
Do the heroes his presence repel?
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and the daughters of dreams
Take him home to their shadows and streams,
In the quiet and questionless place,
Where the righteous and peaceful embrace.
With the breath of the echoing bell,
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and we will not deplore,
Though we see him among us no more;
He remains unforgetting afar,
And he hears us through portals ajar,
Like a child with its ear at a shell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, who was goodly and brave,
But his poems shall conquer the grave,
As monuments simple and pure;
While his sermons for ever endure,
And his empire shall brighten and swell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

222

He is gone, but by wonder of will,
Shall he live and enlighten us still;
For our country, our households and hearts,
Shall retain all his magical arts;
Though we would not, his witchcrafts compel
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, while his head had a crown,
With his hands full of joy and renown;
He bent not in weakness or age,
But he ceased as in turning a page;
And his services who can foretell?
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, with his hand on the plough,
While the honours were bright on his brow;
In the ripeness of manhood sedate,
He collapsed in the furrow of fate,
And the share he shall no more impel.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone to the music he proves,
For to harmony harmony moves;
In the midst of his glory and pride,
With the wonderful Harp at his side;
He has fled from the shadow of hell.
He is gone. Let him go, It is well.

He is gone, with the turn of the flood,
And forsaking a bloom in the bud;
But the flowers and the foliage and fruit,
Which he gave us, are rich in their root,
And the blossoms of Paradise smell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, whither monarchs descend,
For all have their haven and end,
Where nothing provokes or molests;
In the circle of greatness he rests,
With the glorious dead in his cell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and he shall not return,
Till the seal of the funeral urn,
Is dissolved in the furnace of gloom,
At the sound of the trumpet of doom;
And we will not, we dare not rebol.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and the roses may rise,
Rejoicing in radiance of skies;
And the summer will lighten again,

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But he cannot come in its train,
With his melody murmurs to quell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and why should we complain,
If our weeping be idle and vain?
But forgetting the sinking in night,
Let us think of the rising to light—
Of the trumpet and not of the knell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, but his words cannot go,
With the fashions and changeable flow;
For the Future will stamp them divine,
And in Memory's temple enshrine,
Like the daisies that hide in a dell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and his coming is dim,
But we shall be gathered to him,
In the fulness of time, with the years,
When we pass from this valley of tears,
Where the dear and departed ones dwell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

University of Virginia Library

NOVISSIMA VERBA

—IN MEMORY OF CHARLES DICKENS.