And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, I praise him not; it were too late; So always firmly he: He knew to bide his time, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Great captains, with their guns and drums, But at last silence comes; These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame, The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. ABRAHAM LINCOLN.* FOULLY ASSASSINATED APRIL 14, 1865. You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please ; You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain, •This tribute appeared in the London "Punch," which, up to the time of the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, had ridiculed and maligned him with all its well-known powers of pen and pencil. The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood; Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest! The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven; And with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven. TOM TAYLOR. WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON. "Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city officers O Truth! O Freedom! how are ye still born What! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his cell, Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn her frown? Brave Luther answered Yes; that thunder's swell Rocked Europe, and discharmed the 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 dark created 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? He and his works, like sand, from earth are blown. Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here! See one straightforward conscience put in pawn To win a world; see the obedient sphere By bravery's simple gravitation drawn! Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old, We stride the river daily at its spring, that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor; that his office What myriad vassal streams shall tribute bring, was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his supporters a few very insignificant persons of all colors." -Letter of H. G. OTIS. In a small chamber, friendless and unseen, Toiled o'er his types one poor, unlearned young man; The place was dark, unfurnitured, and mean: Yet there the freedom of a race began. Help came but slowly; surely no man yet Such earnest natures are the fiery pith, The compact nucleus, round which systems grow: Mass after mass becomes inspired therewith, And whirls impregnate with the central glow. How like an equal it shall greet the sea. O small beginnings, ye are great and strong, Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong, THE OLD ADMIRAL. ADMIRAL STEWART, U. S. N. GONE at last, That brave old hero of the past! His spirit has a second birth, An unknown, grander life; All of him that was earth Lies mute and cold, Like a wrinkled sheath and old, Upon some distant, glorious strife. From another generation, A simpler age, to ours Old Ironsides came; The morn and noontide of the nation Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame, O, not outlived his fame! The ships we marshal at our country's need, spoke ; Still floats our unstruck banner from the mast Lay him in the ground: Let him rest where the ancient river rolls; Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the sound Of the bell whose proclamation, as it tolls, The dauntless men whose service guards our Is of Freedom and the gift our fathers gave. Nor till the prize was theirs repressed their Where no turbulent billows roar, His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands There all his martial mates, renewed and Await his coming long. I see the happy Heroes rise With gratulation in their eyes: "Welcome, old comrade," Lawrence cries; "Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars! Who win the glory and the scars? How floats the skyey flag, how many stars? Still speak they of Decatur's name? Room for the Admiral! Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars!" EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. MAZZINI. A LIGHT is out in Italy, A golden tongue of purest flame. This light which burnt for Italy Through all the blackness of her night, She doubted, once upon a time, Because it took away her sight. She looked and said, "There is no light!" It was thine eyes, poor Italy! That knew not dark apart from bright. This flame which burnt for Italy, It would not let her haters sleep. They blew at it with angry breath, And only fed its upward leap, And only made it hot and deep. Its burning showed us Italy, And all the hopes she had to keep. This light is out in Italy, Her eyes shall seek for it in vain ! For her sweet sake it spent itself, Too early flickering to its wane, Too long blown over by her pain. Bow down and weep, O Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again! LAURA C. REDDEN (HOWARD GLYNDON). JOHN C. FREMONT. THY error, Fremont, simply was to act A brave man's part, without the statesman's tact, To that Dark Power whose underlying crime HAWTHORNE. MAY 23, 1864. How beautiful it was, that one bright day In the long week of rain! Though all its splendor could not chase away The omnipresent pain. The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms, Across the meadows, by the gray old manse, I was as one who wanders in a trance, The faces of familiar friends seemed strange; Their voices I could hear, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change For the one face I looked for was not there, Only an unseen presence filled the air, Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream Dimly my thought defines; I only see a dream within a dream The hilltop hearsed with pines. I only hear above his place of rest The infinite longings of a troubled breast, There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, The ground for truth's seed, or forerun their Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, And left the tale half told. Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower And the lost clew regain? Unfinished must remain ! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. TO THE MEMORY OF FLETCHER HARPER. No soldier, statesman, hierophant, or king; Through many an early struggle led to find So let his children's children go their way, DINAH MULOCK CRAIK. THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. MAY 28, 1857. IT was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying, "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee." "Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod, And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God." And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe. And whenever the way seemed long, She would sing a more wonderful song, So she keeps him still a child, For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; Though at times he hears in his dreams And the mother at home says, "Hark! It is growing late and dark, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE PRAYER OF AGASSIZ. ON the isle of Penikese, Ringed about by sapphire seas, Fanned by breezes salt and cool, Stood the Master with his school. Over sails that not in vain Wooed the west-wind's steady strain, Line of coast that low and far Stretched its undulating bar, Wings aslant along the rim Of the waves they stooped to skim, Rock and isle and glistening bay, Fell the beautiful white day. Said the Master to the youth: What the Thought which underlies What it is that hides beneath Blight and bloom and birth and death. By past efforts unavailing, Doubt and error, loss and failing, Of our weakness made aware, Then the Master in his place Bowed his head a little space, |