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The book is completed,

And closed, like the day; And the hand that has written it

Lays it away.

Dim grow its fancies ;

Forgotten they lie; Like coals in the ashes,

They darken and die.

Song sinks into silence,

The story is told,
The windows are darkened,

The hearth-stone is cold.
Darker and darker

The black shadows fall ; Sleep and oblivion

Reign over all.


The noble horse,
That, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils
Neighed courage to his rider, and brake through
Groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord
Safe to triumphant victory, old or wounded,
Was set at liberty, and freed from service.
The Athenian mules, that from the quarry drew
Marble, hewed for the Temple of the Gods,
The great work ended, were dismissed and fed
At the public cost; nay, faithful dogs have found
Their sepulchre ; but MAN, to man more cruel,
Appoints no end to the sufferings of his SLAVE.



[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea,

before I heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.)


THE pages of thy book I read,

And, as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said,

“Servant of God! well done!” Well done! Thy words are great and bold;

At times they seem to me,
Like Luther's, in the days of old,

Half-battles for the free.

Go on, until this land revokes

The old and chartered Lie, The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes

Insult humanity.

A voice is ever at thy side

Speaking in tones of might,
Like the prophetic voice, that cried

To John in Patmos, “ Write!”

Write ! and tell out this bloody tale ;

Record this dire eclipse, This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail,

This dread Apocalypse !

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