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One died on the black-draped scaffold,
Was the Stuart of Scotland plotting
Dark questions! - and who shall solve them?
Shall be opened to commonest eyes;
Who shall dig and cavil and grope, And keep to the ear learned promise, While they break it to the hope!
Ah, well, there is one sad lesson
Made clear to us all, at the worst: Of two forces made quite incarnate,
And that equally blessed and cursed. With the English woman, all-conquering
Was Power, and its handmaid, Pride;
With the Scottish walked fierce-eyed Passion,
And the paths were the paths of ruin,
With their guerdon the sleepless pillow,
And their weapon the broken troth; And each, when she died, might have shuddered To know she had failed to find
A content, even poorly perfect,
As that blessing some landless hind!
Ah, well, again, they are sleeping
If their sepulchres severed wide.
That the eyes, to judge them at last, Will be free from the gloss and glamour Blinding ours through present and past! Henry Morford.
WORLD, what have your poets while they live But sorrow and the finger of the scorner? And, dead, the highest honor you can give Is burial in a corner.
Not so, my poets of the popular school
Disprove that mean, yet prevalent conception.
And so, good World, the poet still remains
Here in Westminster's sanctuary, where
This nook so dim and shabby.
So when we come to see Westminster's lions,
Some in corporeal presence crowd the nook,
White-bearded Chaucer's here, an honored guest,
Here's Michael Drayton in his laurelled tomb,
Spenser is here from faerie land, his eyne
Admired the more that half his "Faerie Queen "
Here's Prior, who was popular no doubt;
And Guy, with face and cowl round as a saucer; And Dryden, who, some think, should be put out Because he murdered Chaucer.
And Milton, after all his civil shocks,
Is here with look of sweet, yet strong decision, — John Milton, with the soft poetic locks And supernatural vision.
Beaumont of the firm of B. and F. is here;
Gray, of the famous Elegy, who found
His churchyard in the country rather lonely, Lies with the rest in this more classic ground, Although in spirit only.
And Goldsmith at the Temple leaves his bones,
And here is he that wrote the Seasons four;
And Garrick, too, who had poetic lore
And Southey, who for bread wrote many a tome,
Campbell is here in body as in soul, —
He for a national song eclipsed by no land; And in whose grave the patriotic Pole Sprinkled the earth of Poland.
Of other famous names we find the trace,
Now most upon their own true genius stand;
THE TOMB OF ADDISON.
MAN I forget the dismal night that gave
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,