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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,
Or grown in Nature's mysteries an adept ?



An associate of Lowell in Cambridge, and

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,

land things



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

slope knew,

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:


grace ?

Peaceful by birthright as a virgin lake,
The lily's anchorage, which no eyes behold
Save those of stars, yet for thy brother's

That lay in bonds, thou blewst a blast as

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
Of the polluting city-flood, regain
Ideal grace secure from taint of time.
An Attic frieze you give, a pictured song;
For as with words the poet paints, for

The happy pencil at its labor sings,
Stealing his privilege, nor does him wrong,
Beneath the false discovering the true,
And Beauty's best in unregarded things.





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

few; crost

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

for you.

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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

many lives.

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


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

And I

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.
Tant d'enor com prodom set faire." Thinking of you, I see my firelight glow

CRESTIEN DE TROIES, On other faces, loved from long ago,
Li Romans dou Chevalier au Lyon, 784-788.

Dear to us both, and all these loves com

bine 1874

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

all, defect,

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,

hearthstone round,

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

joys ?

No, 't was not to bring laurels that I came,
Nor would you wish it, daily seeing fame,
(Or our cheap substitute, unknown of yore,)
Dumped like a load of coal at every door,
Mime and hetæra getting equal weight
With him whose toils heroic saved the State.
But praise can harm not who so calmly

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


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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


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