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Warm noon brims full the valley's cup, Nor how for every turn are tost

The aspen's leaves are scarce astir; Armfuls of diamond and of peari.
Only the little mill sends up
Its busy, never-ceasing burr.

But Summer cleared my happier eyes

With drops of some celestial juice, Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems To see how Beauty underlies

The road along the mill-pond's brink, Forevermore each form of use. From 'neath the arching barberry-stems, My footstep scares the shy chewink. And more; methought I saw that flood,

Which now so dull and darkling steals, Beneath a bony buttonwood

Thick, here and there, with human blood,
The mill's red door lets forth the din; To turn the world's laborious wheels.
The whitened miller, dust-imbued,
Flits past the square of dark within. No more than doth the miller there,

Shut in our several cells, do we
No mountain torrent's strength is here; Know with what waste of beauty rare
Sweet Beaver, child of forest still,

Moves every day's machinery.
Heaps its small pitcher to the ear,
And gently waits the miller's will. Surely the wiser time shall come

When this fine overplus of might,
Swift slips Undine along the race

No longer sullen, slow, and dumb,
Unheard, and then, with flashing bound, Shall leap to music and to light.
Floods the dull wheel with light and grace,
And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge In that new childhood of the Earth
round.

Life of itself shall dance and play,

Fresh blood in Time's shrunk veins make The miller dreams not at what cost

mirth, The quivering millstones hum and whirl, And labor meet delight half-way.

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TO LAMARTINE

Who says thy day is o'er ? Control,

My heart, that bitter first emotion;

While men shall reverence the steadfast 1848

soul, I DID not praise thee when the crowd,

The heart in silent self-devotion 'Witched with the moment's inspira- Breaking, the mild, heroic mien, tion,

Thou 'lt need no prop of marble, LamarVexed thy still ether with hosannas loud,

tine. And stamped their dusty adoration; I but looked upward with the rest, If France reject thee, 't is not thine, And, when they shouted Greatest, whis- But her own, exile that she utters; pered Best.

Ideal France, the deathless, the divine,

Will be where thy white pennon flutThey raised thee not, but rose to thee,

ters, Their fickle wreaths about thee fling- As once the nobler Athens went ing;

With Aristides into banishment. So on some marble Phæbus the swol'n sea

Might leave his worthless seaweed No fitting metewand hath To-day clinging,

For measuring spirits of thy stature; But pious bands, with reverent care, Only the Future can reach up to lay Make the pure limbs once more sublimely

The laurel on that lofty nature, bare.

Bard, who with some diviner art

Hast touched the bard's true lyre, a nation's Now thou 'rt thy plain, grand self again,

heart. Thou art secure from panegyric, Thou who gav'st politics an epic strain, Swept by thy hand, the gladdened chords,

And actedst Freedom's noblest lyric; Crashed now in discords fierce by This side the Blessed Isles, no tree

others, Grows green enough to make a wreath for Gave forth one note beyond all skill of thee.

words,

And chimed together, We are brothers. Nor can blame cling to thee; the snow O poem unsurpassed ! it ran

From swinish footprints takes no stain- All round the world, unlocking man to

ing, But, leaving the gross soils of earth below,

Its spirit mounts, the skies regaining, France is too poor to pay alone And unresentful falls again,

The service of that ample spirit; To beautify the world with dews and rain. Paltry seem low dictatorship and throne,

Weighed with thy self - renouncing The highest duty to mere man vouchsafed

merit; Was laid on thee, out of wild chaos, They had to thee been rust and loss; When the roused popular ocean foamed Thy aim was higher, - thou hast climbed and chafed

a Cross !
And vulture War from his Imaus
Snuffed blood, to summon homely Peace,
And show that only order is release.

TO JOHN GORHAM PALFREY

man.

To carve thy fullest thought, what though Dr. Palfrey, whose name is for students asTime was not granted ? Aye in his

sociated mainly with his History of New Engtory,

land, was one of the most consistent and firm Like that Dawn's face which baffled Angelo anti-slavery men of his day. Chosen to ConLeft shapeless, grander for its mystery,

gress as a Whig member, he refused to support Thy great Design shall stand, and day

the Whig candidate for the Speakership of the

House, because he was assured that the candi. Flood its blind front from Oriente far

date, Mr. Winthrop, would not use his position away.

to obstruct the extension of the slave power.

This incident called out the fourth of the first series of Biglow Papers.

THERE are who triumph in a losing

cause, Who can put on defeat, as 't were a wreath Unwithering in the adverse popular breath, Safe from the blasting demagogue's ap

plause; 'T is they who stand for Freedom and

God's laws.

Drop not like ripened fruit about our feet; We climb to them through years of

sweat and pain; Without long struggle, none did e'er at

tain The downward look from Quiet's blissful

seat: Though present loss may be the hero's

part, Yet none can rob him of the victor heart Whereby the broad-realmed future is sub

dued, And Wrong, which now insults from tri

umph's car, Sending her vulture hope to raven far, Is made unwilling tributary of Good.

And so stands Palfrey now, as Marvell

stood, Loyal to Truth dethroned, nor could be

wooed To trust the playful tiger's velvet paws: And if the second Charles brought in decay

Of ancient virtue, if it well might wring Souls that bad broadened 'neath a nobler

day, To see a losel, marketable king Fearfully watering with his realm's best

blood Cromwell's quenched bolts, that erst had

cracked and flamed, Scaring, through all their depths of courtier

mud, Europe's crowned bloodsuckers, - how

more ashamed Ought we to be, who see Corruption's flood Still rise o'er last year's mark, to mine

away Our brazen idol's feet of treacherous

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clay!

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morn

was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary What humble hands unbar those gates of a negro boy, and his supporters a few very insignificant persons of all colors.".

Letter of

Through which the splendors of the New H. G. Otis.

Day burst ! This significant sentence printed at its head gave the key-note to the following poem, but it is interesting to read the characterization of

What! shall one monk, scarce known beGarrison drawn by Mr. Lowell at this same time,

yond his cell, in a letter to C. F. Briggs dated March 26, 1848. Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and "I do not agree with the abolitionists in their

scorn her frown ? disunion and non-voting theories. They treat Brave Luther answered Yes; that thunideas as ignorant persons do cherries. They

der's swell think them unwholesome unless they are swal- Rocked Europe, and discharmed the lowed, stones and all. Garrison is so used to

triple crown. standing alone that, like Daniel Boone, he moves away as the world creeps up to him, and

Whatever can be known of earth we know, goes farther into the wilderness. He considers every step a step forward, though it be over the Sneered Europe's wise men, in their edge of a precipice. But, with all his faults

snail-shells curled; (and they are the faults of his position) he is a

No! said one man in Genoa, and that No great and extraordinary man.

His work may

Out of the darkness summoned this New be over, but it has been a great work. ... I

World. respect Garrison (respect does not include love). Remember that Garrison was so long in a posi- Who is it will not dare himself to trust ? tion where he alone was right and all the world

Who is it hath not strength to stand wrong, that such a position has created in him

alone ? a habit of mind which may remain, though Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward circumstances have wholly changed. Indeed a mind of that cast is essential to a Reformer.

MUST ? Luther was as infallible as any man that ever

He and his works, like sand, from earth held St. Peter's keys.” Letters I. 125, 126.

are blown. In a small chamber, friendless and un- Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look seen,

here! Toiled o'er his types one poor, unlearned See one straightforward conscience put

young man; The place was dark, unfurnitured, and To win a world; see the obedient sphere mean;

By bravery's simple gravitation drawn ! Yet there the freedom of a race began.

Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old, Help came but slowly ; surely no man And by the Present's lips repeated still, yet

In our own single manhood to be bold, Put lever to the heavy world with less: Fortressed in conscience and impregnable What need of help ? He knew how types

will ? were set, He had a dauntless spirit, and a press. We stride the river daily at its spring,

Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness, Such earnest natures are the fiery pith,

foresee The compact nucleus, round which sys- What myriad vassal streams shall tribute

bring, Mass after mass becomes inspired there- How like an equal it shall greet the sea.

with, And whirls impregnate with the central O small beginnings, ye are great and strong, glow.

Based on a faithful heart and weariless

brain ! O Truth ! O Freedom ! how are ye still | Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong, born

Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in In the rude stable, in the manger nurst !

vain.

in pawn

tems grow;

ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES

TURNER TORREY

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR.

CHANNING

I do not come to weep above thy pall,
And mourn the dying - out of noble

powers; The poet's clearer eye should see, in all Earth's seeming woe, seed of immortal

flowers.

con

The Martyr Torrey was the name applied to this clergyman, who gave up his professional life in order to devote himself to the antislavery cause in Maryland. He was demned to long imprisonment for aiding in the escape of slaves, but died in the penitentiary, May, 1846, of disease brought on by ill usage. His body was taken to Boston, and the funeral made a profound impression on the community. WOE worth the hour when it is crime

To plead the poor dumb bondman's cause, When all that inakes the heart sublime, The glorious throbs that conquer time,

Are traitors to our cruel laws !

He strove among God's suffering poor

One gleam of brotherhood to send; The dungeon oped its hungry door To give the truth one martyr more, Then shut, and here behold the end !

Truth needs no champions: in the infinite

deep Of everlasting Soul her strength abides, From Nature's heart her mighty pulses

leap, Through Nature's veins her strength,

undying, tides. Peace is more strong than war, and gentle

ness, Where force were vain, makes conquest

o'er the wave; And love lives on and hath a power to

bless, When they who loved are hidden in the

grave.

The sculptured marble brags of death

strewn fields, And Glory's epitaph is writ in blood; But Alexander now to Plato yields, Clarkson will stand where Wellington

hath stood.

O Mother State ! when this was done,

No pitying throe thy bosom gave; Silent thou saw'st the death-shroud spun, And now thou givest to thy son The stranger's charity,

a grave. Must it be thus forever? No!

The hand of God sows not in vain, Long sleeps the darkling seed below, The seasons come, and change, and go,

And all the fields are deep with grain. Although our brother lie asleep,

Man's heart still struggles, still aspires; His grave shall quiver yet, while deep. Through the brave Bay State's pulses leap

Her ancient energies and fires. When hours like this the senses' gush

Have stilled, and left the spirit room, It hears amid the eternal hush The swooping pinions' dreadful rush, That bring the vengeance and the

doom;

I watch the circle of the eternal years,

And read forever in the storied page One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong:

and tears, One onward step of Truth from age to

age. The poor are crushed; the tyrants link

their chain; The poet sings through narrow dun

geon-grates; Man's hope lies quenched; and, lo! with

steadfast gain Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse

fates.

Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and

Not man's brute vengeance, such as rends

What rivets man to man apart,
God doth not so bring round his ends,
But waits the ripened time, and sends

His mercy to the oppressor's heart.

cross

Make up the groaning record of the

past;

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