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Proffered its horny hand. The large-lunged West, Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew;
The whispers of rebelliou, faint and few Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to main At first, but deepening ever till they grew Jubilant to the sky,
Into black thoughts of murder, -such the throng Thundered the mighty cry,
Of horrors bound the hero. High the song HONOR TO KANE!
Should be that hymns the noble part he played !
Sinking himself, yet ministering aid
The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured Living defiant of the wants that kill,
The golden wine, and round the shining board Because his death would seal his comrades' fate ; Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast !
Those polar waters, dark and desolate. Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased
Equal to every trial, every fate, Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes,
He stands, until spring, tardy with relief, Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies,
Unlocks the icy gate, Faded and faded ! And the brave young heart and the pale prisoners thread the world once That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed
more, Of all its vital heat, in that long quest
To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore For the lost captain, now within his breast
Bearing their dying chief !
Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold! Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp,
From royal hands, who wooed the knightly Death launched a whistling dart ;
state ; And ere the thunders of applause were done
The knell of old formalities is tolled, His bright eyes closed forever on the sun!
And the world's knights are now self-conseToo late, - too late the splendid prize he won
crate. In the Olympic race of Science and of Art !
No grander episode doth chivalry hold Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone,
In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, Drifts from the white North to a Tropic zone, Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain, And in the burning day
Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold, Wastes peak by peak away,
By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane ! Till on some rosy even
FITZ.JAMES O'BRIEN. It dies with sunlight blessing it ; so he Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea, And melted into heaven !
We will not weep for him who died so well ; A Light is out in Italy,
We watched it burning, long and lone,
And every watcher knew its name,
And knew from whence its fervor came :
That one rare light of Italy, What tale of peril and self-sacrifice !
Which put self-seeking souls to shame! Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice,
With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow ! This light which burnt for Italy Night lengthening into months; the ravenous Through all the blackness of her night, floe
She doubted, once upon a time, Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear Because it took away her sight. Crunches his prey. The insufficient share She looked and said, “ There is no light!” Of loathsome food ;
It was thine eyes, poor Italy ! The lethargy of famine ; the despair
That knew not dark apart from bright. Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued :
Toil done with skinny arms, and faces lued This flame which burnt for Italy, Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind
It would not let her haters sleep. Glimmered the fading embers of a mind!
They blew at it with angry breath, That awful hour, when through the prostrate band And only fed its upward leap, Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand And only made it hot and deep.
Its burning showed us Italy, And all the hopes she had to keep.
This light is out in Italy,
Her eyes shall seek for it in vain ! For her sweet sake it spent itself,
Too early flickering to its wane, Too long blown over by her pain.
Bow down and weep, 0 Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again !
LAURA C. REDDEN (Howard Glyndon).
God-fearing, learned in life's hard-taught school ;
“the noblest work of God."
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT.
DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ.
MAY 28, 1857
Tuy error, Fremont, simply was to act
thee, Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free ! The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull
It 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
The child upon her knee, Saying, “Here is a story-book
Thy Father has written for thee."
"C'ome, wander with me," she said,
“Into regions yet untrod, And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God."
And the mother at home says,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE PRAYER OF AGASSIZ.
On the isle of Penikese,
The All-Father heareth us ; And his holy ear we pain With our noisy words and vain. Not for him our violence, Storming at the gates of sense, His the primal language, his The eternal silences ! Even the careless heart was moved, And the doubting gave assent, With a gesture reverent, To the Master well-beloved. As thin mists are glorified By the light they cannot hide, All who gazed upon him saw, Through its veil of tender awe, How his face was still uplit By the old sweet look of it, Hopeful, trustful, full of cheer, And the love that casts out fear. Who the secret may declare Of that brief, unuttered prayer ? Did the shade before him come Of the inevitable doom, of the end of earth so near, And Eternity's new year?
Said the Master to the youth :
In the lap of sheltering seas
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEK
Then the Master in his place
Fair City by the Sea ! upraise
THE DUKE OF GLOSTER.
I, that am rudely stamperl and want love's And mingle with thy own the praise
majesty And pride of other lands.
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; Let Greece his fiery lyric breathe
I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Above her hero-urns ;
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable 0, stately stand thy palace walls,
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the tine,
Unless to see my shadow in the sun.
King Richard III., Act i. Sc. I.
Nor less thy tall fleets swim,
The starry Galileo, with his woes.
Childe Harold, Cant. iv.
The echoes of his song ;
Sir PHILIP SIDNEY.
The admired mirror, glory of our isle,
Thou far, far more than mortal man, whose style Too late, alas !- Of all who knew
Struck more men dumb to hearken to thy song The living man, to-day
Than Orpheus' harp, or Tully's golden tongue. Before his unveiled face, how few Make bare their locks of gray !
To him, as right, for wit's deep quintessence,
For honor, valor, virtue, excellence, Our lips of praise must soon be dumb,
Be all the garlands, crown his tomb with bay, Our grateful eyes be dim;
Who spake as much as e'er our tongue can say. O, brothers of the days to come,
Britannia's Pastorals, Book ii. Song 2.
Divinest Spenser, heaven-bred, happy Muse ! But let no moss of years o'ercreep
Would any power into my brain infuse
Thy worth, or all that poets had before,
I could not praise till thou deserv'st no more.
Britannia's Pastorals, Book il. Song 1,
From that time unto this season,
I received nor rhyme nor reason.
Lines on his promised Pension.
SPENSER. To Henry Reynolds : Of Poets and Poesy. M. DRAYTON,
THE EARL OF WARWICK. Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick! Proud setter-up and puller-down of kings.
King Henry VI., Part III. Act iii. Sc. 3.
Essay on Man, Epistie IV.