Back to the burning fountain whence it

came,

heard

His voice in all her music, from the

moan

the same,

Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid

hearth of shame.

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep

He hath awaken'd from the dream of life

'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife

Invulnerable nothings. We decay

Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief Convulse us and consume us day by day,

bird;

He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,

Spreading itself where'er that Power may

move

Which has withdrawn his being to its

own;

Which wields the world with neverwearied love,

Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.

He is a portion of the loveliness

Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear

I could lie down like a tired child,

And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me,

And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last mo-
notony.

Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;
They might lament-for I am one
Whom men love not,-and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in
memory yet.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. O MOTHER EARTH! upon thy lap Thy weary ones receiving, And o'er them, silent as a dream, Thy grassy mantle weaving, Fold softly in thy long embrace

That heart so worn and broken, And cool its pulse of fire beneath

Thy shadows old and oaken.

Shut out from him the bitter word And serpent hiss of scorning; Nor let the storms of yesterday Disturb his quiet morning. Breathe over him forgetfulness

Of all save deeds of kindness, And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, Press down his lids in blindness.

There, where with living ear and eye
He heard Potomac's flowing,
And, through his tall ancestral trees,

Saw autumn's sunset glowing,
He sleeps, still looking to the west,
Beneath the dark wood shadow,
As if he still would see the sun

Sink down on wave and meadow. Bard, Sage, and Tribune!-in himself All moods of mind contrasting,The tenderest wail of human woe, The scorn-like lightning blasting;

The pathos which from rival eyes

Unwilling tears could summon, The stinging taunt, the fiery burst Of hatred scarcely human!

Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower,
From lips of lifelong sadness;
Clear picturings of majestic thought
Upon a ground of madness;
And over all romance and song

A classic beauty throwing,
And laurell'd Clio at his side
Her storied pages showing.

All parties fear'd him: each in turn
Beheld its schemes disjointed,

As right or left his fatal glance

And spectral finger pointed. Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down With trenchant wit unsparing, And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand The robe Pretence was wearing.

Too honest or too proud to feign
A love he never cherish'd,
Beyond Virginia's border-line

His patriotism perish'd.
While others hail'd in distant skies

Our eagle's dusky pinion,
He only saw the mountain bird
Stoop o'er his Old Dominion!

Still through each change of fortune strange,

Rack'd nerve, and brain all burning,
His loving faith in motherland

Knew never shade of turning;
By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave,
Whatever sky was o'er him,
He heard her rivers' rushing sound,
Her blue peaks rose before him.

He held his slaves, yet made withal
No false and vain pretences,
Nor paid a lying priest to seek

For scriptural defences.
His harshest words of proud rebuke,
His bitterest taunt and scorning,
Fell fire-like on the Northern brow
That bent to him in fawning.

He held his slaves: yet kept the while His reverence for the human:

In the dark vassals of his will

He saw but man and woman!
No hunter of God's outraged poor
His Roanoke valley enter'd;
No trader in the souls of men

Across his threshold ventured.

And when the old and wearied man
Lay down for his last sleeping,
And at his side, a slave no more,
His brother-man stood weeping,
His latest thought, his latest breath,

To freedom's duty giving,

With failing tongue and trembling hand

The dying blest the living.

Oh, never bore his ancient State

A truer son or braver!
None trampling with a calmer scorn
On foreign hate or favor.

He knew her faults, yet never stoop'd
His proud and manly feeling
To poor excuses of the wrong
Or meanness of concealing.

But none beheld with clearer eye

The plague-spot o'er her spreading, None heard more sure the steps of Doom Along her future treading.

For her as for himself he spake,

When, his gaunt frame upbracing,
He traced with dying hand "REMORSE!"
And perish'd in the tracing.

As from the grave where Henry sleeps,
From Vernon's weeping willow,
And from the grassy pall which hides
The sage of Monticello,

So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone
Of Randolph's lowly dwelling,
Virginia! o'er thy land of slaves

A warning voice is swelling!

And hark! from thy deserted fields

Are sadder warnings spoken, From quench'd hearths, where thy exiled

sons

Their household gods have broken. The curse is on thee,-wolves for men, And briers for corn-sheaves giving! Oh more than all thy dead renown Were now one hero living!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.