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Dream-forger, I refill thy cup
With reverie's wasteful pittance up,
And while the fire burns slow away, ON THE GIFT OF AMEERSCHAUM PIPE Hiding itself in ashes gray,
I'll think, As inward Youth retreats, The pipe came safe, and welcome too, Compelled to spare bis wasting heats, As anything must be from you;
When Life's Ash-Wednesday comes about, A meerschaum pnre, 't would float as light And my head 's gray with fires burnt out, As she the girls call Amphitrite.
While stays one spark to light the eye, Mixture divine of foam and clay,
With the last flash of memory, From both it stole the best away:
’T will leap to welcome C. F. B., Its foam is such as crowns the glow
Who sent my favorite pipe to me.
(HOME OF EDMUND QUINCY) And very Venus of a pipe.
DBDHAM, May 21, 1877
Edmund Quincy was eleven years the senior From Lethe wbarf, whose potent seed
of Lowell, but their common labors in the Nicotia, big from Bacchus, bore
early days of the anti-slavery movement, and And cast upon Virginia's shore,
their congeniality of temper and wit, made I'll think, So fill the fairer bowl
them very intimate friends. And wise alembic of thy soul, With herbs far-sought that shall distil, Not fumes to slacken thought and will, I CHRISTENED yon in happier days, before But bracing essences that nerve
These gray forebodings on my brow were To wait, to dare, to strive, to serve.
Hidden forever! So our world is made Of life and death commingled; and the
sighs Outweigh the smiles, in equal balance laid: What compensation ? None, save that the
Allwise So schools us to love things that cannot
Nor deem he lived unto himself alone;
blown On every wind; his soul would not con
spire With selfish men to soothe the mob's de
sire, Veiling with garlands Moloch's bloody
stone; The high-bred instincts of a better day Ruled in his blood, when to be citizen Rang Roman yet, and a Free People's sway Was not the exchequer of impoverished
men, Nor statesmanship with loaded votes to
play, Nor public office a tramps' boosing-ken.
Thank God, he saw you last in pomp of
May, Ere any
leaf had felt the year's regret; Your latest image in his memory set Was fair as when your landscape's peaceful
sway Charmed dearer eyes with his to make
delay On Hope's long prospect, - as if They for
get The happy, They, the unspeakable Three,
whose debt, Like the hawk's shadow, blots our brightest
day: Better it is that ye should look so fair, Slopes that he loved, and ever-murmuring
pines That make a music out of silent air, And bloom-heaped orchard-trees in pros
perous lines; In you the heart some sweeter hints divines, And wiser, than in winter's dull despair.
Old Friend, farewell! Your kindly door
again I enter, but the master's hand in mine No more clasps welcome, and the temperate
wine, That cheered our long nights, other lips
must stain: All is unchanged, but I expect in vain The face alert, the manners free and fine,
DIED JUNE 11, 1875 Mr. Winlock was at the head of the Harvard Astronomical Observatory at the time of his death. Shy sonl and stalwart, man of patient will Through years one hair's-breadth on our
Dark to gain, Who, from the stars he studied not in vain, Had learned their secret to be strong and
still, Careless of fames that earth's tin trum
pets fill; Born under Leo, broad of build and brain, While others slept, he watched in that
hushed fane Of Science, only witness of his skill:
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 inore 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 faitb 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 be who drew such gladness ever seek, Fair pictures of an angel drawing nigh!
Ask rather could he else have seen at all,
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 lightsone 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 Agio chase,
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
AUTUMN SKETCH OF
WITH A COPY OF AUCASSIN
THANKS to the artist, ever on my wall LEAVES fit to bave been poor Juliet's
mould 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;
band 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