And we are silent, we who daily, O for a whiff of Naseby, that would tread What humble hands unbar those gates of morn Through which the splendors of the ON THE DEATH OF C. T. TORREY. What shall one monk, scarce known beyond his cell, Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and Wor worth the hour when it is crime To lead the poor dumb bondman's scorn her frown? Brave Luther answered YES; that thun der's swell cause, When all that makes the heart sublime, Rocked Europe, and discharmed the The glorious throbs that conquer time, triple crown. Whatever can be known of earth we know, Sneered Europe's wise men, in their snail-shells curled; No! said one man in Genoa, and that No Out of the darkness summoned this New World. Who is it will not dare himself to trust? Who is it hath not strength to stand alone? Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward MUST? Are traitors to our cruel laws! He strove among God's suffering poor Then shut, and here behold the 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 He and his works, like sand, from Must it be thus forever? No! earth are blown. The poet's clearer eye should see, in all | And lives unwithered in its blithesome Earth's seeming woe, seed of immor tal flowers. youth, When he who called it forth is but a name. Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone; The better part of thee is with us still; Thy soul its hampering clay aside hath thrown, And only freer wrestles with the Ill. Thou livest in the life of all good things; What words thou spak'st for Freedom shall not die; Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings To soar where hence thy Hope could hardly fly. And often, from that other world, on this Some gleams from great souls gone before may shine, To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss, And clothe the Right with lustre more divine. Thou art not idle: in thy higher sphere Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks, And strength to perfect what it dreamed of here Is all the crown and glory that it asks. For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room For love and pity, and for helpful deeds; Else were our summons thither but a doom To life more vain than this in clayey weeds. From off the starry mountain-peak of song, Thy spirit shows me, in the coming time, An earth unwithered by the foot of wrong, A race revering its own soul sublime. What wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes, may come, Thou knowest not, nor I; but God will lead The prodigal soul from want and sorrow | Thou knowest how much a gentle soul home, And Eden ope her gates to Adam's seed. Farewell! good man, good angel now! this hand Soon, like thine own, shall lose its cunning too; Soon shall this soul, like thine, bewildered stand, Then leap to thread the free, unfathomed blue: When that day comes, O, may this hand grow cold, Busy, like thine, for Freedom and the O, may this soul, like thine, be ever bold To face dark Slavery's encroaching blight! This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier; Let worthier hands than these thy wreath intwine; Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear,For us weep rather thou in calm di 1842. vine ! TO THE MEMORY OF HOOD. ANOTHER star 'neath Time's horizon dropped, To gleam o'er unknown lands and seas; Another heart that beat for freedom stopped, What mournful words are these! is worth To teach men what thou art! His was a spirit that to all thy poor Was kind as slumber after pain: Why ope so soon thy heaven-deep Quiet's door And call him home again? Freedom needs all her poets: it is they Yet thou hast called him, nor art thou unkind, O Love Divine, for 't is thy will That gracious natures leave their love behind To work for Mercy still. Let laurelled marbles weigh on other tombs, Let anthems peal for other dead, Rustling the bannered depth of minsterglooms With their exulting spread. His epitaph shall mock the short-lived stone, No lichen shall its lines efface, He needs these few and simple lines alone To mark his resting-place : "Here lies a Poet. Stranger, if to thee His claim to memory be obscure, O Love Divine, that claspest our tired If thou wouldst learn how truly great earth, And lullest it upon thy heart, was he, Go, ask it of the poor." And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; Earth gets its price for what Earth gives He sings to the wide world, and she to us; The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in; At the devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, "T is only God may be had for the ask ing; her nest, In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? |