To snap the half-grown flower upon About earth's shaken coignes, were the loom

not a fate (Trophy that was to be of life-long.. To leave us all-disconsolate ; pain),

Even endless slumber in the sweetening The thread no o her skill can ever knit again.

Of charitable earth 'T was so with him, for he was glad | That takes out all our mortal stains, to live,

And makes us cleanlier neighbors of ’T was doubly so, for he left work the clod, begun;

Methinks were better worth Could not this eagerness of Fate for- | Than the poor fruit of most men's wakegive

ful pains, Till all the allotted flax were spun? The heart's insatiable ache: It matters not; for, go at night or But such was not his faith, noon,

Nor mine : it may be he had trod A friend, whene'er he dies, has died Outside the plain old path of God thus too soon,

spake, And, once we hear the hopeless He is But God to him was very God, dead,

And not a visionary wraith So far as flesh hath knowledge, all is Skulking in murky corners of the said.


And he was sure to be
VI. 1.

Somehow, somewhere, imperishable as
I seem to see the black procession go :
That crawling prose of death too well Not with His essence mystically com-
I know,

bined, "The vulgar paraphrase of glorious As some high spirits long, but whole and woe;

free, I see it wind through that unsightly. A perfected and conscious Agassiz. grove,

And such I figure him : the wise of old Once beautiful, but long defaced Welcome and own him of their peaceful With granite permanence of cockney fold, taste

Not truly with the guild enrolled And all those grim disfigurements we Of him who seeking inward guessed love :

Diviner riddles than the rest There, then, we leave him: Him ?

And groping in the darks of thought such costly waste

Touched the Great Hand and knew it Nature rebels at: and it is not true

not; Of those most precious parts of him we Rather he shares the daily light, knew :

From reason's charier fountains won, Could we be conscious but as dreamers Of his great chief, the slow-paced Stagy’T were sweet to leave this shifting life And Cuvier clasps once more his longof tents

lost son. Sunk in the changeless calm of Deity; Nay, to be mingled with the elements, The fellow-servant of creative powers, The shape erect is prone: forever stilled Partaker in the solemn year's events, The winning tongue; the forehead's highTo share the work of busy-fingered piled heap, hours,

A cairn which every science helped to To be night's silent almoner of dew,

build To rise again in plants and breathe Unvalued will its golden secrets keep: and grow,

He knows at last if Life or Death be To stream as tides the ocean caverns best: through,

Wherever he be flown, whatever vest Or with the rapture of great winds to The being hath put on which lately





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So many-friended was, so full of cheer | You snub me with a pitying “ Where To make men feel the Seeker's noble Were you in the September Gale?”

zest, We have not lost him all; he is not Both stared entranced at Lafayette,

Saw Jackson dubbed with LL. D. To the dumb herd of them that wholly What Cambridge saw not strikes us yet die;

As scarcely worth ope's while to see. The beauty of his better self lives on In minds he touched with fire, in many Ten years my senior, when my name an eye

In Harvard's entrance-book was writ, He trained to Truth's exact severity; Her halls still echoed with the fame Hle was a Teacher : why be grieved for Of you, her poet and her wit.

him Whose living word still stimulates the 'T is fifty years from then to now : air ?

But your Last Leaf renews its green, In endless file shall loving scholars come Though, for the laurels on your brow The glow of his transmited touch to (So thick they crowd), 't is hardly share,

seen. Aud trace his features with an eye less

The oriole's fledglings fifty times Than ours whose sense familiar wont Have flown from our familiar elms; makes numb.

As many poets with their rhymes FLORENCE, ITALY, February, 1874.

Oblivion's darkling dust o'erwhelms. The birds are bushed, the poets gone

Where no harsh critic's lash can TO HOLMES


And still your wingëd brood sing on ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY, To all who love our English speech. DEAR Wendell, why need count the Nay, let the foolish records be years

l'hat make believe you 're seventy. Since first your genius made me thrill,

five; If what moved then to smiles or tears, | You 're the old Wendell still to me,

Or both contending, move me still ? And that 's the youngest man alive. What has the Calendar to do

The gray-blue eyes. I see them still, With poets? What Time's fruitless The gallant front with brown o'ertooth

hung, With gay immortals such as you

The shape alert, the wit at will, Whose years but emphasize your The phrase that stuck, but never youth?

stung One air gave both their lease of breath; You keep your vouth as yon Scotch firs,

The same paths lured our boyish feet; Whose gaunt line my horizon hems, One earth will hold us safe in death, Though twilight all the lowland blurs,

With dust of saints and scholars sweet. Hold sunset in their ruddy stems.

Our legends from one source were you with the eldery? Yes, 't is true, drawn,

But in no sadly literal sense, I scarce distinguish yours from mine, With elders and coevals too, And don't we make the Gentiles yawn Whose verb admits no preterite tense With “ You remembers?" o'er our wine!

Master alike in speech and song

Of fanie's great antiseptic - Style, If I, with too senescent air,

You with the classic few belong Invade your elder memory's pale,

| Who tempered wisdom with a smile.

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Outlive us all! Who else like you At mastery, through long finger-ache,

Could sift the seedcoru from our chaff, At length arrived.
And make us with the pen we knew
Deathless at least in epitaph ?

WOLLASTON, August 29, 1884.

| As I read on, what changes steal
O'er me and through, from head to

IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYYÁM. | A rapier thrusts coat-skirt aside,

My “rough Tweeds bloom to silken THESE pearls of thought in Persian gulfs pride, were bred,

| Who was it laughed? Your hand, Dick Each softly lucent as a rounded moon;

Steele! The diver Omar plucked them from Their bed,

Down vistas long of clipt charmille Fitzgerald strung them on an English Watteau as Pierrot leads the reel; thread.

Tabor and pipe the dancers guide

As I read on. Fit rosary for a queen, in shape and hue,

While in and out the verses wheel When Contemplation tells her pensive The wind-caught robes trim feet reveal, beads

Lithe ankles that to music glide, Of mortal thoughts, forever old and But chastely and by chance descried; new.

| Art? Nature? Which do I most feel Fit for a queen ? Why, surely then for | As I read on?

you ! The moral ? Where Doubt's eddies toss

TO C. F. BRADFORD and twirl Faith's slender shallop till her footing ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE,

reel Plunge: if you find not peace beneath The pipe came safe, and welcome too, the whirl,

As anything must be from you; Groping, you may like Omar grasp a

A meerschaum pure, 't would float as pearl.

As she the girls call Amphitrite.

Mixture divine of foam and clay,
ON RECEIVING A COPY OF MR. From both it stole the best away :

AUSTIN DOBSON'S "OLD WORLD Its foam is such as crowns the glow

Of beakers brimmed by Veuve Clicquot;
Its clay is but congested lymph

Jove chose to make some choicer nymph; At length arrived, your book I take And here combined, — why, this must To read in for the author's sake :

be Too gray for new sensations grown, The birth of some enchanted sea, Can charm to Art or Nature known Shaped to immortal form, the type This torpor from my senses shake ? And very Venus of a pipe. Hush! my parched ears what runnels When high I heap it with the weed slake?

From Lethe wharf, whose potent seed Is a thrush gurgling from the brake ? Nicotia, big from Bacchus, bore Has Spring, on all the breezes blown, And cast upon Virginia's shore, At length arrived ?

I'll think, - So fill the fairer bowl

And wiso alembic of thy soul, Long may you live such songs to make, With herbs far-sought that shall distil, And I to listen while you wake,

Not fumes to slacken thought and will, With skill of late disused, each tone But bracing essences that nerve Of the Lesboum barbiton,

| To wait, to dare, to strive, to serve.

When curls the smoke in eddies soft, The bridge is there; the rock with And hangs a shifting dream aloft,

lichens hoar; That gives and takes, though chance. And the same shadows on the water designed,

lean, The impress of the dreamer's mind, Outlasting us. How many graves beI'll think, - So let the vapors bred

tween By Passion, in the heart or head, That day and this! How many shadows Pass off and upward into space,

more Waving farewells of tenderest grace, Darken my heart, their substance from Remembered in some happier time,

these eyes To blend their beauty with my rhyme. | Hidden forever! So our world is made

Of life and death commingled ; and the While slowly o'er its candid bowl

sighs The color deepens (as the soul

Outweigh the smiles, in equal balance That burns in mortals leaves iis trace

laid : Of bale or beauty on the face),

What compensation ? None, save that I'll think, - So let the essence rare

the Allwise Of years consuming make me fair; So schools us to love things that cannot So, 'gainst the ills of life profuse,

fade. Steep me in some narcotic juice ;

II. And if my soul must part with all That whiteness which we greenness call, Thank God, he saw you last in pomp of Smooth back, 0 Fortune, half thy frown, May, And make me beautifully brown! Ere any leaf had felt the year's regret;

Your latest image in his memory set Dream-forger, I refill thy cap

Was fair as when your landscape's With reverie's wasteful pittance up,

peaceful sway And while the fire burns slow away, Charmed dearer eyes with his to make Hiding itself in ashes gray,

delay I'll think, – As inward Youth retreats, On Hope's long prospect, - as if They Compelled to spare his wasting heats,

forget When Life's Ash-Wednesday comes The happy, They, the unspeakable about,

Three, whose debt, And my head 's gray with fires burnt Like the hawk's shadow, blots our out,

brightest day : While stays one spark to light the eye, Better it is that ye should look so fair, With the last flash of memory,

| Slopes that he loved, and ever-murmur"T will leap to welcome C. F. B.,

ing pines Who sent my favorite pipe to me. That make a music out of silent air,

And bloom-heaped orchard-trees in pros.

perous lines ;

In you the heart some sweeter hints di. BANKSIDE.


And wiser, than in winter's dull despair.' DEDRAM, MAY 21, 1877.

Old Friend, farewell! Your kindly door

again I CHRISTENED you in happier days, I enter, but the master's hand in mine before

No more clasps welcome, and the tem. These gray forebodings on my brow were perate wine, seen;

That cheered onr long nights, other lips You are still lovely in your new-leaved must stain: green;

All is unchanged, but I expect in vain The brimming river soothes his grassy The face alert, the manners free and shore;



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The seventy years borne lightly as the | Happy man's doom! To him the Fates pine

were known Wears its first down of snow in green Of orbs dim hovering on the skirts of disdain :

space, Much did he, and much well; yet most Unprescient, through God's mercy, of his of all

I prized his skill in leisure and the ease
Of a life flowing full without a plan;

For most are idly busy; him I call
Thrice fortunate who knew himself to

TO FANNY ALEXANDER. please, Learned in those arts that make a gentle Unconscious as the sunshine, simply man.

sweet And generous as that, thou dost not close

Thyself in art, as life were but a rose Nor deem he lived unto himself alone; To rumple bee-like with luxurious feet: His was the public spirit of his sire, Thy higher mind therein finds sure And in those eyes, soft with domestic fire, A quenchless light of fiercer temper shone But not from care of common hopes and What time about ihe world our shame woes ; was blown

Thee the dark chamber, thee the unOn every wind; his soul would not con

friended, kpows, spire

Although no babbling crowds thy praise With selfish men to soothe the mob's

repeat: desire,

Consummate artist, who life's landscape Veiling with garlands Moloch's bloody bleak stone;

Hast brimmed with sun to many a The high-bred instincts of a better day

clouded eye, Ruled in his blood, when to be citizen

Touched to a brighter hue the beggar's Rang Roman yet, and a Free People's


Hung over orphaned lives a gracious sky, Was not the exchequer of impoverished | And traced for eyes, that else would men;

vainly seek, Nor statesmanship with loaded votes to Fair pictures of an angel drawing nigh! play,

Nor public office a tramps' boosing-ken.


DIED JUNE 11, 1875.

The wisest man could ask no more of Fate Say sonl and stalwart, man of patient will Than to be simple, modest, manly, true, Through years one hair's-breadth on our Safe from the Many, honored by the Dark to gain,

Few; Who, from the stars he studied not in vain, To count as Daught in World, or Church, Ilad learned their secret to be strong or State, and still,

| But inwardly in secret to be great; Careless of fames that earth's tin trum- To feel mysterious Nature ever new; pets fill;

To touch, if not to grasp, her endless Born under Leo, broad of build and brain, clue, While others slept, he watched in that Add learn by each discovery how to wait. hushed fane

He widened kuowledge and escaped the Of Science, only witness of his skill:

praise; Sudden as falls a shooting-star he fell, He wisely taught, because more wise to But inextinguishable his luminous trace learn; In mind and heart of all that knew him He toiled for Science, not to draw men's well.


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