At Sunset :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thou metamorphic god!
Who mak'st the steep Olympus thy abode,
Hermes to subtle laughter moving,
Apollo with serener loving.
Thou demigod also!
Who dost all the powers of healing know;
Thou hero who dost wield
The golden sword and shield,—
Shield of a comprehensive mind,
And sword to wound the foes of human kind;

Thou man of noble mould!
Whose metal grows not cold
Beneath the hammer of the hurrying years;
A fiery breath doth blow
Across its fervid glow,
And still its resonance delights our ears.
Loved of thy brilliant mates,
Relinquished to the fates,
Whose spirit music used to chime with thine,
Transfigured in our sight,
Not quenched in death's dark night,
They hold thee in companionship divine.

O autocratic muse!
Soul-rainbow of all hues,
Packed full of service are thy bygone years;
Thy wingèd steed doth fly
Across the starry sky,
Bearing the lowly burthens of thy tears.

I try this little leap,
Wishing that from the deep
I might some pearl of song adventurous bring.
Despairing, here I stop—
And my poor offering drop;
Why stammer I when thou art here to sing?

1879.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

How shall the Muse of vanished years
Fitly inscribe his two-fold page?
Wizard of laughter and of tears,
A master jester, and a sage.

A presence answering to the cry,
“Lord! who shall show us any good?”
A sheaf of sunbeams passing by,
In jewels of delight renewed.

Deftly he blew the pipes of Pan,
Or swept Apollo's golden lyre;
Rehearsing all the fate of Man,
How he must suffer, how aspire.

Oh! stay with us! Life cannot fail
When thou its varied values showest!
Or leave us thine immortal scale,
And all the wondrous lore thou knowest!

Weeping, we laid his form in earth,
A soldier, fallen in the trenches,
A wingèd spirit, free of birth;
Look up! he 's singing in the branches.

1894.

WASHINGTON ALLSTON

READ AT THE ALLSTON CELEBRATION OF THE NEW ENGLAND WOMEN'S CLUB

PRELUDE

Immortal Presence of the Beautiful!
Thee our attempted festivals invoke.
In Nature's chaos, passionless and dull,
Thy voice the spell of dark disorder broke.

Ev'n as thy fiat sowed the heavens with light,
Herald of glories—torch of worlds unknown,
Souls didst thou kindle, whose effulgent light
The lustre of thy rolling orbs outshone.

Our human hearts alternate day and night,
Hopes dawn, attain their noontide, and decline;
But when their flattering sun has spent his light,
From purple depths the steadfast spirits shine.

And we who thank for breath, and health, and sense,
Our great world-sphere, its beauties and its laws,
Bless most that ministry of life intense
Whose holy office knows nor rest nor pause.

We, whispering women, like an insect band
Chirping the vespers of the summer day,
Call with our simple music, poorly planned,
On a majestic soul, beloved for aye.

RECITAL

The Puritan was strict and lone.
He set his face, like flinty stone,
His will resolved and sturdy hand
To drive the demons from the land.

In his belief, the harmful Powers
That haunt this universe of ours
Had settled purpose, form, and face,
That ever warred with saintly grace.

The shots he aimed were good and true;
A thousand evil things they slew,
Yet other evil, springing still,
Brought torment to his manly will.

“Here Law and Logic rule,” he said,
“Yet Disbelief erects her head.
Sin grows apace, we work with pain,
The native demons still remain.”

A whisper from the upper air
Lightened with love that heavy care,

And bade on helpful errand start
Th' anointed chivalry of Art.

Supreme in that inspired band
Did Allston's genius bless the land,
Enthroning o'er the dark abyss
Transcendent forms of heavenly bliss.

Time flies away, with joys and pains;
His guardian presence still remains,
His noble fire, unquenched of death,
His sentence, passing human breath.

Those silvery curls, those lustrous eyes,
That deep regard, so kind and wise,
The habit quaint, the kindling smile
Seen in our frigid streets erewhile.

All these are lost, but not the dreams
With which his varied canvas gleams,
We lose not, with life's fleeting span,
The measure of the perfect man.

With reverence, on the tinted walls
That bear his trace, the sunlight falls;
The women that his fancy framed
Are never doubted, never shamed.

Where sits the wanton at his feast,
The Prophet's warning heeding least,
Recalling thee, his heart shall tell
How wild Belshazzar reigned, and fell.

Trimountain, crown the Master's grave!
Cherish the wondrous gifts he gave
Who, called to other spheres away
Bids yet his steadfast angels stay.

ROBERT E. LEE

READ AT THE RICHMOND CELEBRATION OF THE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF GENERAL LEE'S BIRTH

A gallant foeman in the fight,
A brother when the fight was o'er,
The hand that led the host with might
The blessed torch of learning bore.

No shriek of shell nor roll of drums,
No challenge fierce, resounding far,
When reconciling Wisdom comes
To heal the cruel wounds of war.

Thought may the minds of men divide,
Love makes the hearts of nations one;
And so, thy soldier grave beside,
We honor thee, Virginia's son.

January 19, 1907.

WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING

WRITTEN FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HIS BIRTH, AT NEWPORT, R. I.

I come to-day a verse to build
Which skill should match with arches fine,
A task to set the workman's guild
Whose strength shall stand for things divine.

In this fair isle, by Nature blest,
Where men for health and pleasure throng,
I call a spirit from its rest,
I summon back a soul with song.

For God who gave this genial sky,
The rapture of this mellow air,
Did lend in happy days gone by
A presence grand, an influence rare.

Our beauteous seasons wax and wane,
And bear us on to fate and death;
But he shall bloom and bloom again
In every generation's breath.

Oh! fine and brave that subtle hand
Which found the knots, so small and strong,

By which belief and passion band
To do divine and human wrong.

He caught the echo of the wail
Which once from Calvary's mountain rolled,
When felt the Love that cannot fail
The spite of superstition old.

His voice took up the trumpet blast
Which Hope's glad resurrection blew,
When out of mystic shadow passed
The glory that the Master knew.

Oh! deep of heart, oh! true of thought!
The temper of thy perfect steel
In Heaven's high armory was wrought,
The strength of Justice to reveal.

The Negro in the Southern wild
Had cause to bless thy champion name;
The Northern freeman for his child
Thy gracious heritage doth claim.

The faith that maketh Woman free
For humankind to do and dare,
The peace that dwells with liberty
Was in thy teaching and thy prayer.

Here the foundation stone we lay
Of some fine fabric that shall rise
To image to a later day
Thee, greatly good, and purely wise.

When God vouchsafes his greatest gift,
The Prophet, crown of all desire,
Let us our duteous emblem lift,
Let us endeavor and aspire.

So shall the work we strive to rear
Be crowned with blessing in our sight;
And, like the life we honor here,
Reflect the everlasting light.

1880.

MARGARET FULLER

WRITTEN FOR HER CENTENARY

Fate dropt our Margaret
Into the bitter sea,
A pearl in golden splendor set
For spirit majesty.

Love wore her on his hand
And Friendship in her heart,
She glistened in the jeweled band
Of poesy and Art.

Oh! oft the diver brings
His treasure from the deep,
And out of deadly danger wrings
The gems that monarchs keep.

But never gift so fair
His venturous task repaid,
Not emblems rich that Champions wear
At Holytide displayed.

Th' Egyptian's gem of light
Flashed in the gleaming wine,

A regal jewel stol'n from sight
To grace a pomp divine.

So He who laid our Pearl
Deep in the sapphire sea
Keeps her rare essence in the cup
Of immortality.

1909.

ARCHBISHOP WILLIAMS'S JUBILEE

Fifty years of faithful service,
Saintly record and renown;
Better than the poet's laurels,
He shall wear the patriarch's crown.

Let the generations gather,
Young and old their tributes blend,
For the orphan calls him father,
And the suffering call him friend.

In the name of God most holy
Did this champion take the field;
For the love of Christ the lowly
Has he ministered and healed.

Benedictions at the altar
Hath he called on many a head;
It is now your turn to bless him
Who has given you heavenly bread.

Let the generations gather!
Thanks and prayers to Heaven ascend,
To the everlasting Father,
For the Master, Teacher, Friend!

1895.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

Our sorrow sends its shadow round the earth.
So brave, so true! A hero from his birth!
The plumes of Empire moult, in mourning draped,
The lightning's message by our tears is shaped.

Life's vanities that blossom for an hour
Heap on his funeral car their fleeting flower.
Commerce forsakes her temples, blind and dim,
And pours her tardy gold to homage him.

The notes of grief to age familiar grow
Before the sad privations all must know;
But the majestic cadence which we hear
To-day, is new in either hemisphere.

What crown is this, high hung and hard to reach,
Whose glory so outshines our laboring speech?
The crown of Honor, pure and unbetrayed;
He wins the spurs who bears the knightly aid.

1881.

JOHN G. WHITTIER

The chrism of Christ was on his brow,
The sword of Paul within his hand,
As pledged by a Crusader's vow
He met the evil of the land.

Yet with his armèd presence went
His poet song, of love inspired,
And his rebukes, of stern intent,
With charity divine were fired.

“What ho! thou Quaker grim, come down!
The mob is clamoring for thy blood!”
I do not fear the Martyr's crown
Since Truth must conquer, by the rood.

“How shouldst thou go, thou man of Peace,
Where Tyranny's red banners wave?”
Until the bitter feud shall cease,
I take my stand beside the slave.

So Michael, with a brow of Heaven,
Trod the brute Satan underneath;
So to each loyal soul is given
The glory of Faith's civic wreath.

And thou wert crowned, when crownèd were
Thy heart's high wishes for thy kind,
When spirits breathed a purer air,
And light prevailed o'er passions blind.

Thy linkèd lustres sped away,
Bringing the heavenly hope more near,
While God's great order of our day
Grew to thy earnest sight more clear.

Numbers were gathered in thy train,
The captive helped in sorest need;
And souls that knew a subtler chain,
From iron superstition freed.

The song of labor thou mad'st sweet,
Setting thy tent on ocean beach;
When snow-bound were thy sober feet,
Thy mind essayed her eagle reach.

How shall we yield thee? Time doth rob
The very oracles divine.
The heart of love forgets to throb,
Silent and empty is the shrine.

Yet was it burial when men laid
In earth thy reverend fold of dust?
Was thy life ended when they prayed
Above thy grave in trembling trust?

Nay, with the spirit of thine age
Mingles the breath that did suspire;
And spread on many a radiant page
Abides the wealth of thy desire.

And Freedom seated on her rock
Above the wrecks of Fate o'erthrown,
Thy record holds beyond the shock
Of change, her treasure, and our own.

1892.

WHITTIER

READ AT THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION AT HAVERHILL, DECEMBER 17, 1907

A spirit in our midst abode,
A champion, risking life and limb,
With firm intent to bear the load
That Fate had meted out to him:

The burthen of an evil time
That grieved men's souls with forfeit pledge;
The task, t' assail a nation's crime
With weapon of celestial edge.

For still a son of Peace was he,
Servant and master of the lyre;
All bloodless must his warfare be,
Launched all in love his bolts of fire.

Such victories are given to song
As slaughter never may achieve,
When the rapt soul is wooed from wrong
Some heavenly lesson to receive.

I saw him when the locks that crown
Fair youth were heaped above his brow;

His eyes like lustrous jewels shone,
The trifler's world they did not know.

Feathered as from an angel's wing
The arrows of his quiver flew;
A thrill of sorrow they might bring,
A wound, and yet a balsam too.

Soon War's wild music filled the land,
And fields of fight were won and lost,
When grieving Conscience made her stand
To pay the debt of deadly cost.

And many were the days of dole
Before the bitter strife could cease.
But ever that anointed soul
Dwelt in its citadel of Peace.

Thence, like an anthem rising clear,
Rang out the poet's helpful word;
Melodious messages of cheer
Above the battle din were heard.

And years of labor came and went,
But ere he passed the bound of Fate
His days were crowned with high content;
He saw his land regenerate.

Methought that from the Poet's grave
A whisper thrilled the ear, that said:
“Surrender not his music brave,
For while it lives, he is not dead.

“And when, with other sounds of earth
Shall pass the beauty of his rhyme,
Eternity shall keep the worth
Lost from the treasury of Time.”

ABBY WILLIAMS MAY

Her feet were ever ready,
Her hand was ever steady;
The onward sweep
Of purpose deep
Disclosed no flaw nor eddy.

On many an errand went she,
To many a trouble bent she,
Such helpful thought,
Such counsel brought,
The bloom of youth thus spent she.

A maiden of high feature,
Of good and glorious nature,
Dear to His heart
Who did impart
Such grace unto His creature.

So many sweet peace betide her
Whose holy laws did guide her,
And all that's blest
In God's dear rest
Be with her and beside her.

1888.

FOR THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE

APRIL 4, 1860

A weight I bear, and a task I share,
Of glad and generous sympathy.
These loving hearts have all their parts,
In the spring-song I must echo thee.

Each eloquent soul would keep control
Of the Poet's slender gift of words,
As an instrument that should give consent
To the waiting music of many birds.

But the wings of love that bear above,
Shall help me to bring my burthen near;
And my stammering tongue, leaving half unsung,
Can tell how we prize thee, Master dear.

For these fifty years we thank with tears
The tender hand that hath counted them;
And we thank again for those that remain
Still veiled in God's unseen diadem.

The roses flung, and the incense swung,
Are for youth's bright matins and manhood's prime;

But the tapers are lit for the patient feet
That follow the pensive vesper chime.

Within thy fold, safe as of old,
Still gather us each bright Sabbath morn;
Call home thy sheep, that wander and weep,
Comfort the weary and briar-worn.

That years a score may sweep us o'er,
Walking yet serene the heavenward way,
A loving band, that the shepherd's hand
Brings near the bounds of the brighter day.

Till transfigured quite, in its holy light,
We hear, still clinging close to thee:
“Father, I come to my heavenly home,
With the children thou hast given me.”

FOR THE SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY OF JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE

Who knocks? Pass on, I pray:
Thou hast mistook the way.
All that I had I gave in days of yore.
If that thy need be great,
Since Age doth me abate,
Ask jocund Youth to help thee from his store.

Yet stay. For whom the feast?
“For one to whom the least
Of what we owe is such fond gratitude
As from the dumb might wring
Attempted uttering,
And from thy lips the breath of song renewed.”

Then shall my heart indite
Whate'er my hand can write
From out the wasted treasure of my time.
For, silent here to sit,
And fear my failing wit,
My soul should count it very near a crime.

'T was thy persuasive thought
My errant fancy caught
When height of wisdom matched not length of years;

When still, with airy schemes,
And many-featured dreams,
I wrought at childish tasks with childish tears.

If ever to the good
Of holy womanhood
Mine own with saintlier spirits did aspire,
Where was the lesson writ,
My slumberous sense to hit,
As by thy hand, in characters of fire?

For such a glittering net
Doth human souls beset,
That from its bonds they have no power to flee,
Till smites that sword of truth
Which owes no error ruth,
And by pain's costly ransom they are free.

'T were idle in this verse
The reasons to rehearse
For which we crown to-day thy front beloved.
Thou didst thy life impart
With such a gracious art,
We scarcely knew the spell by which we moved.

What nuptials hast thou blest!
What dear ones laid to rest!
What infants welcomed with the holy sign!

Life's hospitality
Was so akin to thee,
That half of all our good and ill was thine.

In dark, perplexing days,
When sorrow silenced praise,
We saw thy light above the vapors dim,
In battle's din and shout
Thy clarion blast rang out:
“The victory is God's, we follow Him.”

Thy life has had, like ours,
Its sunshine and its showers,
Has reached the heights of joy, the depths of grief;
But richer hath it been
By all the gifts serene
That make the leader, brother, friend, and chief.

Bring then the palm and vine,
Roses with lilies twine,
And let us image in our offered wreath
The life enriched with toil,
The consecrating oil,
And love that fears not time, and knows not death.

JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE

READ AT THE ONE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF HIS BIRTH, CHURCH OF THE DISCIPLES, BOSTON, APRIL 3, 1910

Richer gift can no man give
Than he doth from God receive.
We in greatness would have pleasure,
But we must accept our measure.
Let us question, then, the grave,
Querying what the Master gave,
Whom, in his immortal state,
Grateful love would celebrate.

Only human life was his,
With its thin-worn mysteries.
Shall we not describe him, “Man,
Built to last a little span,
Like our Earth, his dwelling-place,
Swung aloft, 'twixt Time and Space,
Tuned for ecstasy and pain,
Ever prompted to attain
For the blessing or the curse
That Eternities rehearse?”
Lifting from the Past its veil,
What of his does now avail?

Just a mirror in his breast
That revealed a heavenly guest,
And the love that made us free
Of the same high company.
These he brought us, these he left
When we were of him bereft.

He was resolute and bright,
Was a hero in the fight,
Trained his gifts of speech and song
Holy lessons to prolong,
Made the great Apostle's dream
Present still and potent seem.

Human fortunes we must share,
Must endeavor, must forbear;
Days of weakness, nights of pain,
Try, and turn, and try again;
But Golconda has no mine
Could that legacy outshine,
Did we keep, through good and ill,
James Freeman's angel with us still.

LUCY STONE

Full of honors and of years,
Lies our friend at rest,
Passing from earth's hopes and fears
To the ever Blest.

One of the anointed few
Touched with special grace
For a life whose service true
Should redeem the race.

Where is that persuasive tone
Welcome in our ears?
Still I hear it, sounding on,
Through the golden spheres.

When we raise our battle cry
For the holy Right,
We shall feel her drawing nigh
With a spirit's might.

As the veil of flesh doth part,
We behold her rise,
Crowned with majesty of heart:
There true queendom lies.

1893.

IN MEMORIAM OTTO DRESEL

HANDEL'S LARGO

On every shining stair an angel stood,
And to our dear one said, “Walk higher, friend!”
Till, rapt from earth, in a celestial mood,
He passed from sight to blessings without end;
And where his feet had trod, a radiant flood
His lofty message of content did send.

BEETHOVEN'S FUNERAL MARCH

The heavy steps that 'neath new burdens tread,
The heavy hearts that wait upon the dead,
The struggling thoughts that single out, through tears,
The happy memories of bygone years,
And on the deaf and silent presence call:
O friend belov'd! O master! is this all?
But as the cadence moves, the song-flowers fling

To us the promise of eternal spring,
Love that survives the wreck of its delight,
And goes, torch-bearing, into darksome night.
Trumpet and drum have marked the victor's way,
The seraph voices now their legend say:
“O loving friends! refrain your waiting fond;
The gates are passed, and heaven is bright beyond.”

Suggested by Mr. Loeffler's rendering of the “Largo” at a concert especially dedicated to the memory of Otto Dresel, musician and critic, Boston Music Hall, October 11, 1890.

The funeral march from Beethoven's “Eroica” made part of the programme at this concert.

TO MARY

Thou gracious atom, verging to decay,
What wert thou in the moment of thy stay?
The flowers in thy faded hands that lie
More briefly than thyself scarce bloom and die.
How was it when swift feet thy beauty bore,
And Life's warm ripple sunned thy marble o'er?

A slender maiden, captured by a kiss,
Wed at the altar for a three years' bliss.
No longer space my life's indenture gave
From Juliet's courtship to Ophelia's grave.
The modest helper of heroic art,
The Heaven-bound anchor of a sinking heart.

Ask him who wooed me, earliest and last,
What was my office in Love's sacred past?
What was she, here in silken shell empearled
But my life's life, the comfort of the world?

Written after attending the funeral of Mary Devlin Booth, wife of Edwin Booth.

PHILLIPS BROOKS

The Christ within the Christ thy heart doth feel,
Without, the Christ-beloved humanity;
And so thy simple, fluent words reveal
What flesh and blood have not made known to thee.

As free of evil dost thou wander o'er
This thorny, blooming earth, as if she ne'er
The seeds of sin in her hot bosom bore,
But only treasures consecrate and rare.

Thou treadest fearlessly where Youth and Age
Their pitfalls find, sore wondering at the same;
All doors are open to thy summons sage,
Ice barriers melt before thy touch of flame.

Give us thy secret. Do not flit from earth
Burying the knowledge that hath made thee wise.
Or, if we cannot reach its priceless worth,
Redeem us in the judgment of the skies!

A HEART OFFERING TO THE DEAD BISHOP

PHILLIPS BROOKS

Labor cease!
Rest and peace
O'er thy silent bed;
Lilies sweet
At thy feet,
Lilies at thy head.

Organ boom
In the gloom
Of the darkened shrine;
Hearts whose grief
Seek relief
From the source divine.

Happy years
Seen thro' tears,
When he led you all,
In the fields
The gospel yields
With a shepherd's call.

THE DEAD BISHOP

Where he trod,
Love of God
Blossomed into light.
Form and hue
Goodlier grew
In the eternal light.

Noblest friend,
Who shall end
All thy tender praise?
Souls alift
With thy shrift
Seeking better ways.

Oh! that rhyme
Could but divine
Something of his worth;
Could upbuild
What God willed
Should be dear on earth!

Keep the word
You have heard
As a fruitful seed;
In the rest
Of Heaven's best,
That shall be his meed.

January 25, 1893.

MY FIRST THOUGHT ON HEARING OF BROWNING'S DEATH

Carve ye two pillows of marble stone
Where Westminster arches stand lofty and lone.
Trace on them two garlands of laurel fair,
And where wedded sovereigns sculptured are,
Make a bed in the holiest aisle,
Where storied windows may glow and smile,
And anthems sing for the Royal Dead,
Sovereigns of song, forever wed.

Fruitful of life were those nuptials rare;
A long train follows the kingly pair,
Over the continents, over the seas,
Far as sunrise can follow the breeze,
Far as sunlight in the sky
Makes human hearts leap glad and high.
Spirits of women, spirits of men,
Spirits in joy and spirits in pain,
Whether for merriment, music, or dole,
Follow the tread of each royal soul.

Open your gates, Westminster high!
Where should the minstrel sovereigns lie?

BROWNING'S DEATH

Walk at their funeral, woman lone,
They have thrilled at your grief and moan.
Wits of all ages, counsellors, kings!
Your thoughts to them were familiar things.
Bane of men's evilness, virtue sublime,
Beauties of childhood, gathered in rhyme,
With this sad pageant their ministry ends.
These were your guardians, these were your friends!
Who shall precede you with dutiful feet?
Who shall intone for you melodies sweet?
No one inherits your magical song
That to all ages, all climes doth belong.
Great ones salute you from out the dim past,
Bards of the centuries, fashioned to last.
Homer and Dante and Shakespeare may say:
Souls of our temper are with us to-day.

[N. B. These lines were scrawled, almost illegibly, in the Pullman, on my way, I think, to Fresno, Cal.

Hearing that Browning had died in Venice, the following lines came to me, and were scribbled in like manner, before seeing any account of the procession which they in a manner prefigure.]

Methought I saw our poet's funeral pass
Like a mysterious vision in a glass.
Hearsed in a gondola his ashes lay,
While smiled on him the bright Venetian day,

And silence waited on the bargeman's oar,
Listening for glorious song that comes no more.

The ancient palaces, so primly white,
Did seem to have their sorrow in the sight;
While “in a balcony” lovers and Queen
Persist in acting out their mimic scene,
Scarce heeding when the poet's dust floats by,
Except to say: “Die thou—we need not die.”
The barks fly past, for pleasure, profit, sin,
Urged by some eager hand their goal to win.
For haste thy rowers' muscles are not strained,
No need to hurry now—thou hast attained.
But in thy track a flight of loosened doves,
Other than those thy Venice feeds and loves,
Make plaintive music with their tender call.
Who are ye then, ye creatures slight and small?
What place in this sad festival have ye?
“We're the song-spirits that his verse did free.
The earth shall hide his dust, for which you grieve,
But in his song a better earth shall live.”

MICHAEL ANAGNOS

Vainly we listen for his tread,
Returning from a distant shore.
Here, where his fruitful days were sped,
The friend beloved is seen no more.

Truly, it was a gracious gift
That Greece vouchsafed us, when he came
With buoyant step and heart alight
To win an enviable fame.

The oracles of Hellas old,
The dream of glories yet to be
Had taught his spirit, frank and bold,
The price and worth of liberty.

He entered where a champion crowned
His noble conquests still pursued,
For him the clarion blast did sound
That stirred the elder Hero's blood.

Where souls in shadows dim abode,
Ungladdened by the light of day,
His tutelary guidance showed
The light of Truth's all conquering ray;

For they should know the world so fair,
Its record brave, its wondrous plan,
And, though despoiled of Nature, share
The great inheritance of man.

Oh! friends who gather in the class
The welcome word to hear and tell,
Take with you, as you onward pass,
The thought of him who loved you well.

That love which doth all ills redeem,
Which seals man's noblest promise true,
The prophet's pledge, the poet's dream,
Be that his legacy to you.

1906.

MARY A. LIVERMORE

The darkening of a brow belov'd,
The silence of a voice of cheer
That roused, reminded and reproved
For many a day, in many a year.

She stood beside the beds of pain
Where fainting soldiers scarce drew breath;
She won them back to life again,
Or smiled away the pangs of death.

When Duty bade the woman speak,
How bravely did she heed the call!
With presence resolute, yet meek,
She graced the temple and the hall.

Three decades of laborious years,
Their holiday, the light of home;
Their record in the past appears,
Their promise, in the days to come.

For every earnest word she spake
Shall in Time's furrows ripen seed;

The labor shall our world awake
To take deep thought for human need.

We meet in sorrow at her grave,
Right lovingly we say farewell;
All richer for the life she gave,
All poorer for its broken spell.

1905.

WORDSWORTH

Bark of the unseen haven,
Mind of unearthly mood,
Like to the prophet's raven,
Thou bringest me heavenly food;
Or like some mild dove winging
Its way from cloudless skies,
Celestial odors bringing,
And in its glad soul singing
The songs of paradise.

Surely thou hast been nearer
The bounds of day and night—
Thy vision has been clearer,
And loftier thy flight,
And thou to God art dearer
Than many men of might.
Speak! for to thee we listen
As never to bard before,
And faded eyes shall glisten
That thought to be bright no more.

Oh, tell us of yonder heaven,
And the world that lies within;

Tell of the happy spirits
To whom we are near of kin;
Tell of the songs of rapture,
Of the stars that never set;
Do the angels call us brothers—
Does our Father love us yet?

Speak, for our souls are thirsting
For the light of righteousness;
Speak, for our bosoms are bursting
With a desolate loneliness;
Our hearts are worn and weary,
Our robes are travel-soiled—
For through a desert dreary
Our wandering feet have toiled.

Those to whom life looks brighter
May ask an earthlier strain:
A gayer spell and a lighter
Shall hold them in its chain;
But to those who have drunk deepest
Of the cup of joy and grief,
The tuneful tears thou weepest
Do minister relief.

Speak, for the earth is throbbing
With a wild sense of pain;
The wintry winds are sobbing
The requiem of the slain;

100

Dimly our lamps are burning,
And gladly we list to thee,
With a strange and mystic yearning
Toward the home where we would be:
Turn from the rhyme of weary Time,
And sing of Eternity!

Tell of the sacred mountains
Where prophets in prayer have kneeled;
Tell of the glorious fountains
That soon shall be unsealed;
Tell of the quiet regions
Where those we love are fled;
Tell of the angel legions
That guard the blessèd dead!

Tell of the sea of glass,
And of the icy river;
To those who its waves must pass
Thy message of love deliver.
Strike, strike thy harp of many lays,
And we will join the song of praise
To Him that sitteth upon the throne
Of life and love forever.

Written many years ago.

101

LEONARD MONTEFIORE

By a way of pain and fire
Laid across thy heart's desire,
Thou hast swift arrival where
Ends for thee all earthly care.

From the dismal darkened room,
Where thou cam'st in manhood's bloom,
Where thy vigils of distress
Faded into nothingness,
Men a lifeless burthen carry
For a voyage that may not tarry.

Thou in noble house wert bred,
Wisdom stood thy youth in stead,
Features of an ancient race
Looked in beauty from thy face.
'T was thy early wont to sit
With the men of lofty wit,
Hear the counsels that outshine
Ruby gem and ruby wine.

Wail of kindred o'er the sea
Wakes our sorrowing sympathy,
And the hospitable land
That would take thee by the hand

102

Sadly yields thee to the wave
That doth bar thy island grave.

In this loss, so sad and cold,
Comfort we would still behold,
And, in this divorce of death,
Look beyond the failing breath.
For the doors of human pride
And illusion, opening wide,
Loose thee from this fabled scene,
To the steadfast life serene.
Prophet of the ancient psalm
Usher thee to holy calm.
On the heights where Moses trod
May thy soul commune with God.

Snows of age shall never rest
Heavy on thy manly crest.
Thro' no waning nor decay
Doth thy swift soul wing its way.
All the promise that we knew
Shall remain forever true.
And the gift that we surrender
With a spasm dear and tender
Goes to hands that never waste
What we give with grief and haste,
Till the Giver gives again
Life for death, and joy for pain.

103

FOUND IN ENVELOPE MARKED THE LOST POEM

1907

Master that dwell'st in peace serene,
Thrice happy soul, that ours hast been,
We turn to thee in this fair scene;

As birds that pipe around a cage
Seek its loved inmate to engage
In the sweet war that singers wage.

But thou from out the golden wires
Hast passed, beyond the sunset fires,
To enter where our thought aspires.

Well we recall the falling snows,
The sad day darkening to its close
That saw thee folded in repose.

And as they led thy funeral train
Fair rhymes, the children of thy brain,
Did follow thee with hushed refrain.

In marble shall men set thy name,
Give lavish measure to thy claim
For dear remembrance and high fame.

104

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES

A gentle presence is removed,
The face and form of one beloved.
He in our revels bore his part,
He was a brother of the heart.

Before his gracious youth could pass
Its vision vanished from the glass.
The hand that for high merit strove
Returns no more the clasp of love.

But ere he passed, the sacred bays
Lent their deep meaning to his ways;
His glowing strophes did resound,
He lived and died, a poet crowned,
Happy to lisp with parting breath
A music that may challenge Death.