Proffered its horny hand. The large-lunged West, From out his giant breast, Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to main Jubilant to the sky, Thundered the mighty cry, HONOR TO KANE! In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast! Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies, Faded and faded! And the brave young heart That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed Of all its vital heat, in that long quest For the lost captain, now within his breast More and more faintly throbbed. His was the victory; but as his grasp Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, Death launched a whistling dart; And ere the thunders of applause were done His bright eyes closed forever on the sun! Too late, too late the splendid prize he won In the Olympic race of Science and of Art! Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone, Drifts from the white North to a Tropic zone, And in the burning day Till on some rosy even It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea, And melted into heaven! He needs no tears who lived a noble life! Such homage suits him well, Better than funeral pomp or passing bell! What tale of peril and self-sacrifice! With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow! Night lengthening into months; the ravenous floe Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear The lethargy of famine; the despair Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued: Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind Glimmered the fading embers of a mind! That awful hour, when through the prostrate band Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew; The whispers of rebelliou, faint and few At first, but deepening ever till they grew Into black thoughts of murder, such the throng Of horrors bound the hero. High the song Should be that hymns the noble part he played ! Sinking himself, yet ministering aid To all around him. By a mighty will He stands, until spring, tardy with relief, And the pale prisoners thread the world once Its burning showed us Italy, And all the hopes she had to keep. This light is out in Italy, Her eyes LAURA C. REDDEN (Howard Glyndon). JOHN CHARLES FREMONT. THY error, Fremont, simply was to act A brave man's part, without the statesman's tact, To that Dark Power whose underlying crime The ground for truth's seed, or forerun their years Till lost in distance, or with stout hearts make Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free! The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull ear Turns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear. Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll back JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. TO THE MEMORY OF FLETCHER No soldier, statesman, hierophant, or king; A toiler ever since his days began, Simple, though shrewd, just-judging, man to man; | God-fearing, learned in life's hard-taught school; years! Bury him with fond blessings and few tears, DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK. THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. MAY 28, 1857. Ir was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took Thy Father has written for thee." "Come, wander with me," she said, 'Into regions yet untrod, And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God." And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe. And whenever the way seemed long, So she keeps him still a child, Though at times he hears in his dreams And the mother at home says, "Hark! For his voice I listen and yearn: It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!" HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE PRAYER OF AGASSIZ. On the isle of Penikese, Of the waves they stooped to skim, Said the Master to the youth: We are reaching, through His laws, Blight and bloom and birth and death. Let us light and guidance ask, Then the Master in his place His low voice within us, thus The All-Father heareth us; Even the careless heart was moved, To the Master well-beloved. In the lap of sheltering seas Drifts beyond our beck and hail ! JOHN GREENLeaf WhittieR TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27TH FEBRUARY, 1867. I NEED not praise the sweetness of his song, Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he wrong The new moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along, Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds. With loving breath of all the winds his name Is blown about the world, but to his friends A sweeter secret hides behind his fame, And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim To murmur a God bless you! and there ends. As I muse backward up the checkered years, Wherein so much was given, so much was lost, Blessings in both kinds, such as cheapen tears -But hush! this is not for profaner ears; Let them drink molten pearls nor dream the cost. Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core, As naught but nightshade grew upon earth's ground; Love turned all his to heart's-ease, and the more Fate tried his bastions, she but forced a door, Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound. Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun. Surely if skill in song the shears may stay, Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet As gracious natures find his song to be; May Age steal on with softly cadenced feet Falling in music, as for him were meet Whose choicest verse is harsher-toned than he! JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. DIED IN NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER, 1820. GREEN be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise. Tears fell, when thou wert dying, When hearts, whose truth was proven, And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine, It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. READ AT THE UNVEILING OF HIS STATUE IN CENTRAL PARK, MAY, 1877. AMONG their graven shapes to whom Thy civic wreaths belong, O city of his love! make room For one whose gift was song. Not his the soldier's sword to wield, In common ways, with common men, Had never danced to rhyme. If, in the thronged and noisy mart, He toiled and sang; and year by year The Greek's wild onset Wall Street knew, Fair City by the Sea! upraise His veil with reverent hands; Let Greece his fiery lyric breathe And Scotland, with her holly, wreathe O, stately stand thy palace walls, Not less thy pulse of trade shall beat, Alive, he loved, like all who sing, The praise delayed so long. Too late, alas ! - Of all who knew Make bare their locks of gray! Our lips of praise must soon be dumb, O, brothers of the days to come, New hands the wires of song may sweep, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. THE DUKE OF GLOSTER. I, that am rudely stamped and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; GALILEO. The starry Galileo, with his woes. Childe Harold, Cant. iv. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. SHAKESPEARE BYRON. FRAGMENTS. CHAUCER. As that renowmèd poet them compyled With warlike numbers and heroicke sound, Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled, On Fame's eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled. Faerie Queene, Book iv. Cant, ii. SPENSER. THE EARL OF WARWICK. Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick! LORD BACON. If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined, The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind! Essay on Man, Epistle IV. POPE. |