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Sudden as falls a shooting-star he fell, Safe from the Many, honored by the Few; But inextinguishable his luminous trace To count as naught in World, or Church, In mind and heart of all that knew him
or State, well.
But inwardly in secret to be great; Happy mau's doom! To him the Fates To feel mysterious Nature ever new; were known
To touch, if not to grasp, her endless clue, Of orbs dim hovering on the skirts of And learn by each discovery how to wait. space,
He widened knowledge and escaped the Unprescient, through God's mercy, of his praise; own !
He wisely taught, because more wise to
He toiled for Science, not to draw men's SONNET
But for her lore of self-denial stern.
That such a man could spring from our
decays The daughter of an American portrait Fans the soul's nobler faith until it burn. painter who spent his life in Italy, and herself known through her sympathetic and delicate portraiture of Italian peasant life, especially in her Roadside Songs of Tuscany. The poem
TO A FRIEND is dated at Florence in 1873.
WHO GAVE ME A GROUP OF WEEDS AND UNCONSCIOUS as the sunshine, simply sweet GRASSES, AFTER A DRAWING OF DÜRER And generous as that, thou dost not close Thyself in art, as life were but a rose TRUE as the sun's own work, but more To rumple bee-like with luxurious feet;
refined, Thy higher mind therein finds sure retreat, It tells of love behind the artist's eye, But not from care of common hopes and Of sweet companionships with earth and woes;
sky, Thee the dark chamber, thee the unfriended, And summers stored, the sunshine of the knows,
mind. Although no babbling crowds thy praise What peace! Sure, ere you breathe, the repeat:
fickle wind Consummate artist, who life's landscape Will break its truce and bend that grassbleak
plume high, Hast brimmed with sun to many a clouded Scarcely yet quiet from the gilded fly eye,
That flits a more luxurious perch to find. Touched to a brighter hue the beggar's Thanks for a pleasure that can never pall, cheek,
A serene moment, deftly caught and kept Hung over orphaned lives a gracious sky,
To make immortal summer on my wall. And traced for eyes, that else would vainly Had he who drew such gladness ever seek,
wept? Fair pictures of an angel drawing nigh!
Ask rather could he else bave seen at all,
WITH AN ARMCHAIR
ABOUT the oak that framed this chair, of eminent as a man of science in the field of
old comparative anatomy.
The seasons danced their round; delighted
wings The wisest man could ask no more of Fate Brought music to its boughs; shy woodThan to be simple, modest, manly, true,
Shared its broad roof, 'neath whose green Steeped in her sunshine, let me, while I glooms grown bold,
may, Lovers, more shy than they, their secret Partake the bounty: ample 't is for me told;
That her mirth cheats my temples of their The resurrection of a thousand springs
gray, Swelled in its veins, and dim imaginings
Her charm makes years long spent seem Teased them, perchance, of life more mani
yet to be. fold.
Wit, goodness, grace, swift flash from Such shall it know when its proud arms grave to gay, enclose
All these are good, but better far is she. My Lady Goshawk, musing here at rest, Careless of him who into exile goes, Yet, while his gift by those fair limbs is
BON VOYAGE prest, Through some fine sympathy of nature SHIP, blest to bear such freight across the knows
blue, That, seas between us, she is still his guest. May stormless stars control thy horoscope;
In keel and hull, in every spar and rope,
Be night and day to thy dear office true ! Yet sometimes, let me dream, the con- Ocean, men's path and their divider too, scious wood
No fairer shrine of memory and hope A momentary vision may renew
To the underworld adown thy westering Of him who counts it treasure that he
E’er vanished, or whom such regrets purThough but in passing, such a priceless good,
Smooth all thy surges as when Jove to And, like an elder brother, felt his mood
Crete Uplifted by the spell that kept her true, Swam with less costly burthen, and preAmid her lightsome compeers, to the few
pare That wear the crown of serious woman- A pathway meet for her home - coming
hood: Were he so happy, think of him as one With golden undulations such as greet Who in the Louvre or Pitti feels his soul The printless summer-sandals of the moon Rapt by some dead face which, till then And tempt the Nautilus his cruise to dare !
unseen, Moves like a memory, and, till life outrun, Is vexed with vague misgiving past con
TO WHITTIER trol, Of nameless loss and thwarted might-have- ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY been.
New ENGLAND's poet, rich in love as
years, E. G. DE R.
Her hills and valleys praise thee, her swift
brooks Why should I seek her spell to decompose Dance in thy verse; to her grave sylvan Or to its source each rill of influence trace
nooks That feeds the brimming river of her Thy steps allure us, which the wood-thrush
hears The petals numbered but degrade to prose As maids their lovers', and no treason Summer's triumphant poem of the rose:
fears; Enough for me to watch the wavering Through thee her Merrimacs and Agiochase,
chooks Like wind o'er grass, of moods across her And many a name uncouth win gracious face,
looks, Fairest in motion, fairer in repose.
Sweetly familiar to both Englands' ears:
Peaceful by birthright as a virgin lake,
bold As that wherewith the heart of Roland
brake, Far heard across the New World and the
Purged by Art's absolution from the stain
ON AN AUTUMN SKETCH OF
H. G. WILD
WITH A COPY OF AUCASSIN
THANKS to the artist, ever on my wall LEAVES fit to bave been poor Juliet's The sunset stays: that hill in glory rolled,
cradle-rhyme, Those trees and clouds in crimson and in With gladness of a heart long quenched in gold,
m ald Burn on, nor cool when evening's shadows They vibrate still, a nest not yet grown fall.
cold Not round these splendors Midnight wraps From its fledged burthen. The numb her pall;
hand of Time These leaves the flush of Autumn's vintage Vainly his glass turns; here is endless hold
prime; In Winter's spite, nor can the Northwind Here lips their roses keep and locks their bold
gold; Deface my chapel's western window small: Here Love in pristine innocency bold On one, ah me! October struck his frost, Speaks what our grosser conscience makes But not repaid him with those Tyrian
a crime. hues;
Because it tells the dream that all have His naked boughs but tell him what is lost,
known And parting comforts of the sun refuse: Once in their lives, and to life's end the His heaven is bare, ah, were its hollow
Because its seeds o'er Memory's desert Even with a cloud whose light were yet to
blown lose !
Spring up in heartsease such as Eden
Because it hath a beauty all its own,
Dear Friend, I plucked this herb of grace
His deed, its author long outliving, The love, the honor, felt so many years.
By Nature's mother-care increased, Curtis, skilled equally with voice and pen Shall stand, his verdant almoner, giving To stir the hearts or mould the ininds of A kindly dole to man and beast.
That voice whose music, for I've beard you The wayfarer, at noon reposing,
sing Shall bless its sbadow on the grass,
Sweet as Casella, can with passion ring, Or sheep beneath it huddle, dozing
That pen whose rapid ease ne'er trips with Until the thundergust o'erpass.
Nor scrapes nor sputters, pointed with good The owl, belated in his plundering,
taste, Shall here await the friendly night, First Steele's, then Goldsmith's, next it Blinking whene'er he wakes, and wondering
came to you, What fool it was invented light.
Whom Thackeray rated best of all our
crew, Hither the busy birds shall flutter,
Had letters kept you, every wreath wero With the light timber for their nests,
yours; And, pausing from their labor, utter Had the World tempted, all its chariest The morning sunshine in their breasts.
Had swung on flattered hinges to admit What though his memory shall have van- Such high-bred manners, such good-natured ished,
wit; Since the good deed he did survives? At courts, in senates, who so fit to serve ? It is not wholly to be banished
And both invited, but you would not swerve, Thus to be part
All meaner prizes waiving that you might
In civic duty spend your beat and light, Grow, then, my foster-child, and strengthen, Unpaid, untrammelled, with a sweet disdain
Bough over bough, a murmurous pile, Refusing posts men grovel to attain. And, as your stately stem shall lengthen, Good Man all own you; what is left me, So may the statelier of Argyll !
then, To heighten praise with but Good Citizen ?
But why this praise to make you blush and AN EPISTLE TO GEORGE
stare, WILLIAM CURTIS
And give a backache to your Easy-Chair?
Old Crestien rightly says no language can “De prodome,
Express the worth of a true Gentleman, Des qu'il s'atorne a grant bonto
agree; but other thoughts deride Ja n'iert tot dit ne tot conte, Que leingue ne puet pas retraire
My first intent, and lure my pen aside.
CRESTIEN DE TROIES, On other faces, loved from long ago,
Dear to us both, and all these loves com
With this I send and crowd in every line; CURTIS, whose Wit, with Fancy arm in arm, Fortune with me was in such generous mood Masks balf its muscle in its skill to charm, That all my friends were yours, and all And who so gently can the Wrong expose
were good; As sometimes to make converts, never foes, Three generations come when one I call, Or only such as good men must expect, And the fair grandame, youngest of them Knaves sore with conscience of their own
In her own Florida who found and sips I come with mild remonstrance. Ere I The fount that fled from Ponce's longing start,
lips. A kindlier errand interrupts my heart, How bright they rise and wreathe my And I must utter, though it vex your ears,
Divine my thoughts, reply without a sound, And with them many a shape that memory
As dear as they, but crowned with aureoles
these ! What wonder if, with protest in my thought, Arrived, I find 't was only love I brought ? I came with protest; Memory barred the
road Till I repaid you half the debt I owed.
And one must do his service as he can. Think you it were not pleasanter to speak Smooth words that leave unflushed the
brow and cheek? To sit, well-dined, with cynic smile, unseen In private box, spectator of the scene Where men the comedy of life rebearse, Idly to judge which better and which
Each hireling actor spoiled his worthless
part? Were it not sweeter with a careless heart, In happy commune with the untainted
brooks, To dream all day, or, walled with silent
books, To hear nor heed the World's unmeaning
noise, Safe in my fortress stored with lifelong
No, 't was not to bring laurels that I came,
met Slander's worst word, nor treasured up the
debt, Knowing, what all experience serves to
show, No mud can soil us but the mud we throw. You have heard harsher voices and more
loud, As all must, not sworn liegemen of the
crowd, And far aloof your silent mind could keep As when, in heavens with winter-midnight
deep, The perfect moon hangs thoughtful, nor
can know What hounds her lucent calm drives mad
I love too well the pleasures of retreat Safe from the crowd and cloistered from
the street; The fire that wbispers its domestic joy, Flickering on walls that knew me still a
And knew my saintly father; the full days, Not careworn from the world's soul-squan.
dering ways, Calm days that loiter with snow- - silent
tread, Nor break my commune with the undying
dead; Truants of Time, to-morrow like to-day, That come unbid, and claimless glide away By shelves that sun them in the indulgent
Past, Where Spanish castles, even, were built to
last, Where saint and sage their silent vigil keep, And wrong bath ceased or sung itself to
sleep. Dear were my walks, too, gathering fra
grant store Of Mother Nature's simple-minded lore: I learned all weather-signs of day or night; No bird but I could name him by his flight, No distant tree but by his shape was
known, Or, near at hand, by leaf or bark alone. This learning won by loving looks I hived As sweeter lore than all from books derived. I know the charm of hillside, field, and