i 
 
 I 
 ELECTIONS from the 
 
 i 
 
 
 \ 
 
 >ROSE AND POETIC : WRITINGS 
 
 "JOHN S A VARY 
 
 HHH 
 
 ; 
 
 1832-1910 
 
 I! Hi ii I 
 
GIFT OF 
 

jilemorial Volume 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM 
 
 THE PROSE AND POETICAL WRITINGS 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 JOHN SAVARY 
 
 EDITED BY HIS FRIEND 
 
 JOHN ALBEE 
 
 TO WHICH IS ADDED A GENEALOGICAL RECORD OF THE 
 SAVARY-HALL FAMILIES BY 
 
 MISS MARION H. SHUMWAY 
 
 Chicago 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 1912 
 
\ 
 
JS 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE fW) 
 
 The selections from the writings of the late John 
 Savary are offered to his friends in the spirit "that 
 though dead he still speaketh." Mr. Savary was a 
 prolific as well as a versatile writer. "A poet, historian 
 and naturalist," as was said of Goldsmith, 
 
 "Who left scarcely any style of writing untouched, 
 And touched nothing that he did not adorn." 
 
 These selections, though not so varied as Mr. 
 Savary s writings admitted, are restricted to the 
 preservation of those some of his friends deemed 
 desirable for preservation, and are gathered in this 
 form to meet their desire. They are published in 
 pursuance of a provision of his will. The selections, 
 out of an enormous mass of fragmentary material, 
 are the work of Mrs. Mary Sibley, assisted by her 
 daughter, Mrs. Clover S. Karcher, and Mrs. Jane H. 
 Shernway and her daughter Marion, all of Dorchester, 
 Mass., and all related to the testator. It has been done 
 in the spirit of kinship and affection and is very satis 
 factory. 
 
 The editorial arrangement of the book in prepara 
 tion for publication fell to the hand of Mr. John Albee, 
 whose special fitness for the task will be very readily 
 recognized, since he was a lifelong friend and college 
 mate. It was Mr. Savary s intention to have revised 
 the MSS., but the work was deferred from time to 
 time, and dying suddenly all was left in a chaotic 
 
 251099 
 
fflitrofructotp 
 
 condition. The Memorial is for gratuitous distribu 
 tion, intended as a remembrance to friends. Copies 
 will also be given to the great Libraries, that its contents 
 may also be available to the public. 
 
 DANIEL MURRAY. 
 
 WASHINGTON, D. C., August 8, 1912. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 
 LIFE OF JOHN SAVARY 
 
 JOHN SAVARY, PHILANTHROPIST I 
 
 FROM MANUSCRIPT NOTES ON HIS OWN LIFE ... 8 
 FROM A GENEALOGICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL RECORD 
 
 OF THE SAVARY FAMILIES 15 
 
 FROM THE HALLS OF NEW ENGLAND GENEALOGICAL 
 
 AND BIOGRAPHICAL 22 
 
 PART II 
 
 POEMS OF JOHN SAVARY 
 
 A FEW THOUGHTS ABOUT TRANSLATIONS . 37 
 
 POEMS 40 
 
 PART III 
 
 ESSAYS OF JOHN SAVARY 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 231 
 
 BROWNING S ITALIAN JOURNEYS 253 
 
 OUR "ANNUS MIRABILIS " 260 
 
 NOVEMBER BIRTHDAYS 269 
 
PART I 
 
 3Ufe of 
 
 JOHN SAVARY, PHILANTHROPIST 
 
 The name Savery, sometimes spelt Savary, is worthy 
 of remembrance because of the important part played 
 in a world benefaction by one bearing that name. 
 The family is an old one and is quite prominently men 
 tioned in English history by reason of the fact that one 
 of them, Captain Thomas Savery, is recorded as patent 
 ing, as early as 1699, an atmospheric steam engine, a 
 picture of which is given at page i6of Galloway s History 
 of the Steam Engines, London, 1831. Savery seems to 
 have preceded Thomas Newcomen and John Cawley 
 in the matter of the invention, and compelled them, by 
 this priority, to admit him to a partnership in what is 
 known as "Newcomen s engine," in 1805. They at 
 first only agreed to join his name, but he showed them 
 by irrefutable proof that he had, as early as 1702, pub 
 lished in the Miner s Friend a full description of his 
 engine. Savary, in fact, exhibited several years 
 earlier, before King William, the model of his engine, 
 who was so well pleased with it that he assisted him 
 powerfully in getting his patent, which was granted in 
 1699. It seems that Newcomen, who lived at Dart 
 mouth, in Devon, following the trade of blacksmith, 
 saw a picture of Captain Thomas Savery s machine 
 and set about devising a mode of increasing its effi 
 ciency. The design being to keep mines free of water. 
 In his effort Newcomen solicited the aid of John 
 
 1 
 
2 : ; ; : \.: $fem$rial Volume 
 
 Cawley, a glazier and all-round mechanic. The ma 
 chine thus jointly devised by Savery, Newcomen and 
 Cawley, in 1705, worked satisfactorily, with some 
 minor improvements, until 1764, a period of fifty-nine 
 years, when Mr. John Smeaton succeeded in further 
 improvements. It is a notable fact that the wonder 
 ful discoveries in steam, made by James Watt that 
 same year, 1764, grew out of the repairs needed on a 
 Savery machine, which Watt, as a skilled mechanic, 
 was engaged to make, and becoming interested was 
 induced to consult Dr. Black, of Edinburgh an emi 
 nent scientist, on the "theory of latent heat." And 
 from this Watt developed his great steam engine. 
 
 The title philanthropist and the spirit behind it is as 
 noble as any in the world. It is not given to every man 
 with the altruistic spirit to better the condition of his 
 fellows in a manner equal to the generous promptings 
 of his heart. Many who have the means to become 
 philanthropists lack the nobility of soul to make the 
 necessary sacrifice, and hence the title philanthropist 
 acquires an added significance whenever applied. 
 
 John Savary, the subject of this notice, was born of 
 true New England stock at Ward, now Auburn, a 
 suburb of Worcester, November 4, 1832, the son of 
 Stephen and Daphna Savary. His parents had high 
 hopes for the lad, their sixth child, and in the exuber 
 ance of their piety dedicated him to the service of God. 
 The family was poor and had to gather sustenance for 
 its numerous members out of the sterile soil common 
 to New England farms. John was the fifth son, and to 
 him fell the opportunity for a college education, because 
 designed for the ministry. To secure this boon for 
 him meant much privation for his brothers and sisters 
 
Itife of ^oftn atoarp 
 
 older than himself. After leaving village school, 
 where he received his rudimentary education, he was 
 sent when about fifteen to Worcester Academy, where 
 he spent several years in collegiate preparation, and 
 in 1852 entered Williams College, graduating A. B. 
 in 1855. Among his classmates were James A. Gar- 
 field, later President of the United States, and the late 
 J. Ingalls of Kansas, who for some years acted as Vice- 
 President and was for eighteen years a United States 
 Senator. The warm friendships thus formed lasted 
 until ended by death. 
 
 After leaving Williams College, in 1855, young 
 Savary entered the Divinity School of Harvard Uni 
 versity, from which he graduated in 1860. It was 
 while a student at Harvard, he came into intimate 
 association with Mr. James Russell Lowell, who had 
 been named, in 1854, as a professor of French and 
 Spanish Literature at the University. The friendship 
 thus formed lasted during life and left a deep and 
 abiding impression on the survivor. Indeed, it formed 
 one of the three ruling passions of John Savary s life. 
 First, his intense admiration for the genius of Mr. 
 Lowell; the other two, his remembrance of school days 
 at Worcester and College life at Williams. He joined 
 Mr. Lowell s Dante Class to study the works of the 
 great Italian poet, and there imbibed a strong classical 
 leaning which lasted during his life. In a letter he 
 says, "From the Dante Class I derived more profit 
 and pleasure than from all other Cambridge studies." 
 He was a profound student of the Greek and Latin 
 classical writers, the extent of which will be seen in a 
 perusal of his diaries and books bequeathed to Wor 
 cester Academy. June 5, 1861, Mr. Savary was 
 
Volume 
 
 ordained at Newtonville, Massachusetts, a minister 
 of the Unitarian faith, and began his labors there, 
 remaining until May, 1862, when he yielded to the 
 promptings of patriotism and joined, in June, as a 
 private (with the promise of a Chaplaincy) Co. A, 47th 
 Massachusetts Volunteers. He did not become a 
 Chaplain, but was assigned to service in connection 
 with the Sanitary Commission and stationed at City 
 Point, Virginia. He was there during the winter of 
 1864-65 and was there at the surrender of General 
 Robert E. Lee, April 9, 1865. The war at an end, he 
 returned to Cambridge in October, 1865, and entered 
 Harvard Law School, where he remained but a single 
 term. In July, 1866, he accepted a charge at South 
 Hingham, where he remained until March, 1868. A 
 few months later he went south to New Orleans and 
 thence to Florida, returning north again in August, 
 1869, and located in New York, serving in an institu 
 tion there as teacher of classical and modern languages. 
 He was so engaged when through the active interest 
 of his friend, General Garfield, then a member of Con 
 gress from Ohio, he received an offer from the late 
 A. R. Spofford to become an assistant in the Library of 
 Congress, and March i, 1871, entered upon a career 
 in that institution that lasted until October, 1897, 
 when he resigned. 
 
 After leaving the Library of Congress he had no 
 fixed occupation, rather welcoming the opportunity 
 for travel and study his leisure and ample means 
 enabled him to enjoy. He made an extended journey 
 to the Pacific coast, jotting down daily the impressions 
 made upon him by his observations. On his return 
 to Washington he spent much time at the "Cosmos 
 
ilife of 
 
 Club," an organization made up largely of literary 
 men, among whom he felt perfectly at home. He had 
 in the early days of his career made some prudent in 
 vestments and the care of his estate gave ample 
 occupation to his energies; an estate which at his death 
 approximated over eighty thousand dollars. In the 
 library he was constantly engaged in cataloguing the 
 books in foreign languages, his classical education 
 fitting him somewhat specially for that class of work, 
 and was regarded by Mr. Spofford, the librarian (1864- 
 1897), as an expert bibliographer. 
 
 He died in his bachelor apartments in Washington, 
 D. C., May 18, 1910, after but an hour s illness. In 
 his will, after providing for those who had claims on 
 his bounty, he bequeathed to Williams College, twenty 
 thousand dollars, the income to be expended in the 
 purchase of books for the college library. His fine 
 classical library of nearly 3,500 volumes he gave to 
 Worcester Academy, where he received his early train 
 ing. His love for Worcester Academy is thus mani 
 fested by the following extract from his will: 
 
 ITEM 3. I give and devise to " Worcester Academy" 
 in the City of Worcester, Mass., all of the books (not 
 otherwise disposed of in this will) which are now in my 
 library and such others as may hereafter be acquired 
 and added to the collection, to be held as a sacred trust 
 for the use and behoof of all coming pupils of the Wor 
 cester Academy, as the testator was once a pupil there 
 in its day of small things, and would fain be remembered 
 for this gift and memento in the cause of sound learning 
 and literature. 
 
 And it is the will of the testator and hereby made an 
 indispensable condition to this bequest, that these 
 books in their cases, as now, for the most part kept and 
 
Volume 
 
 arranged, shall still be kept together, as a distinct 
 collection in a separate alcove or section of the library 
 (that is, not mixed and distributed through the general 
 mass), to be known as the "John Savary Collection," 
 and no other. The only other condition annexed to 
 this bequest is that of requiring the keeper or custodian 
 of the library to affix or cause to be affixed to the inside 
 cover of each and every colume thus given and be 
 queathed a printed label stating the fact of such be 
 quest with the name of the donor in the usual style and 
 form of words employed for that purpose. I also give 
 to Worcester Academy a framed portrait of myself to 
 be hereafter made, together with the following portraits 
 and photographs, to wit: I. The Bargello Chapel por 
 trait of Dante, with Lowell s autograph inscription on 
 it to the testator, and a small framed portrait of Dante 
 in exile. 2. The fine Florentine Portraiture on wood 
 of Columbus. 3. Framed portraits of Burns and 
 Wordsworth, and, 4. The large engraving of Circe and 
 the Swine for the class room of the Greek Professor. 
 Furthermore I will and direct that my MSS. Collec 
 tion of notes and memoranda on Books and Reading, " 
 including diaries, note books, journals, etc., be kept 
 in a drawer locked up and accessible only to specially 
 interested persons who may have occasion to use the 
 same in connection with my life and writings, should 
 such be demanded, but all my loose papers and un 
 finished writings are to be burnt immediately. 
 
 Of John Savary it may be truthfully said, as Hazlitt 
 said of Coleridge, author of "The Ancient Manner," 
 To this man has been given in high measure the seeds 
 of noble endowment, but to unfold them had been for 
 bidden him." 
 
 In 1901 Mr. Savary, then about to visit for an ex 
 tended sojourn the Pacific coast, made his will, and in 
 casting about for some early friend in whom he had 
 unlimited confidence and whose fidelity to him was 
 
3iife of 
 
 unquestioned, he recalled Mr. Daniel Murray, with 
 whom he had been associated during twenty-six years 
 in the Library of Congress, and made him his executor. 
 To him he confided his plans and detailed his wishes, 
 saying, "you know how hard it is for a man to secure 
 after death an exact and faithful compliance with his 
 expressed wishes. People will justify their intended 
 substitution of their own views by deriding the sanity 
 of the testator." Mr. Savary made several wills as 
 changing circumstances made such necessary, but in 
 all of them he ever held to his early idea, to name Mr. 
 Daniel Murray as executor. One of the provisions 
 of his last will provided an annuity for his housekeeper, 
 Miss Alice E. Hill, born November 12, 1851, near 
 Winchester, Virginia, a woman of superior mental 
 culture, which had been greatly improved by study and 
 European travel. She was a graduate of the Cooper 
 Union Institute of Art, New York, taught art and 
 French in a young ladies seminary at Mansfield, 
 Louisiana. In September, 1880, she became assistant 
 in the South Bend, Indiana, High School, but in 1882 
 went to Des Moines, Iowa, to teach art in the Callahan 
 College, and two years later to Winnebago City, 
 Minnesota, to become principal of its High School. 
 In 1886 she returned to South Bend, and during the 
 succeeding eight years was special teacher of drawing. 
 Her wide experience in art lines and extensive reading 
 in the classics made her a delightful companion to a 
 man like Mr. Savary, then in his seventy-sixth year, 
 but still deeply interested in literary and art subjects. 
 In his will he made ample provision for her comfort, 
 and to his friend, Daniel Murray, entrusted the duty 
 of carrying the same into effect. How well he per- 
 
jttemorial Volume 
 
 formed the task is amply attested by numerous letters 
 from her relatives following her death in March, 1912. 
 Following the provision of the will of Mr. Savary 
 relating to the publication of such of his MSS. as 
 might be deemed worthy, the executor entrusted the 
 selection out of an enormous mass that had previously 
 been somewhat culled to Mr. John Albee, a lifelong 
 friend and specially gifted in literary acumen, to aid 
 in the work of preparing the same for the press. With 
 Mr. Albee it was very much a labor of affection, in 
 which task the fine literary taste of his wife was of 
 inestimable service. It was the expressed intention of 
 Mr. Savary to have himself revised his writings prepara 
 tory to the publication now undertaken, but, dying 
 very suddenly, the whole was left in a state of chaos. 
 This may account for certain blemishes apparent to 
 the eye of a critical observer. The executor has 
 sought to secure the best result, under the conditions, 
 obtainable. DANIEL MURRAY. 
 
 FROM MANUSCRIPT NOTES ON HIS 
 OWN LIFE 
 
 Born November 4, 1832. Youngest son of Stephen 
 and Daphne Savary. My boyhood was passed in the 
 country, on the farm where I was born, in Auburn, 
 Worcester County, Massachusetts, the home of my 
 parents up to the year 1861. 
 
 My mother was a Hall, of Sutton, Massachusetts. 
 Married my father in the "cold summer" of 1816. 
 Corn that year was ten dollars a bushel. But marriage 
 then did not depend so much on the price of corn as on 
 willingness to bear the yoke of labor, and bravely to 
 
of toln J>atoar 9 
 
 take a share. That my mother was that sort of woman 
 is apparent when I say that the girl of fifteen then 
 spun all the house and table linen, and procured her 
 marriage outfit in that way, and not by sending to 
 Paris for a trousseau. The old spinning wheel made 
 better music than a piano, in a farmer s kitchen, and 
 I heard my mother say, it was at her golden wedding 
 in 1866 pointing her great-grandchildren to her 
 dusty old wheel which on that occasion was brought 
 down from the garret, "I have walked by that wheel a 
 thousand miles when your father was asleep." And 
 so she had. And father fell asleep, indeed, about two 
 years afterwards, while the gray-haired mother, who 
 has seen joy and sorrow in her day, still lives at the age 
 of 81. This may not be the place, yet I cannot forbear 
 my homage to that spirit of indomitable hopefulness, 
 energy and industry, of courage and continuance in 
 well-doing, which fifty years since formed a noble breed 
 of New England women, housekeepers and housewives, 
 of which my mother was the perfect type and present 
 ment to the world. God help New England if the breed 
 is gradually to die out and become extinct. They 
 were the nursing mothers of our Israel in Church and 
 State, and no land which has no women answering to 
 the description of her, or the good wife, in Proverbs, 
 chapter thirty-five. 
 
 If the domestic virtues of industry and economy were 
 ended, laid away with the old hand-loom and spinning 
 wheel, when these went to the loft or garret, and their 
 place supplied by a thin veneering of boarding school 
 accomplishments in the young women of our time, then 
 no man would be justified in taking the risk of marriage 
 and all that it implies. But marriage, I am told, 
 
10 Hemotia! Bolume 
 
 always develops more or less of responsibility, and 
 many a giddy-head belle of the ball-room develops at 
 length into a sober matron; just as Wellington said of 
 his subaltern officers that "the puppies fought well" 
 when it came to fighting. I do hope so, for the sake 
 of the future of my country. I come now to myself. 
 
 Was born November 4, 1832. Lived all my early 
 life on a farm, where my parents continued to reside 
 until 1861. The homestead which lay under the brow 
 of a hill, at the entrance of a narrow and sheltered 
 valley, was half a mile from the nearest neighbor, a 
 mile and a half from church, the same distance from 
 school, where I went summer and winter, and two and 
 a half miles from the post-office. 
 
 Hence a letter was rarely written or received by a 
 member of the family. Once a week the old post- 
 rider, "news from all nations lumbering at his back," 
 came from the next shire-town along the country road 
 which ran lengthwise the valley, leaving a dusty white 
 streak in the summer, and sometimes blocked by deep 
 snows in the winter season. Books there were few in 
 that farmhouse; the Bible, of course, with Watts 
 hymn-book, the old English reader, the ordinary school 
 books, a weekly paper, "Old Farmer s Almanac," 
 which, dingy and dog-eared, always hung from the 
 mantle-piece in the great kitchen with its broad stone 
 hearth and deep fireplace, was found. 
 
 A story-book, like Pilgrim s Progress, or Robinson 
 Crusoe, marked an epoch in our lives. I have since 
 lived with books, immense libraries, but I have never 
 been able to read with that intense absorption in the 
 spirit and soul of my author which marked my early 
 reading of books like Pilgrim s Progress and Robinson 
 
of *tin atoar n 
 
 Crusoe. These, like the reading of Bacon and Shakes 
 peare afterwards, were distinct epochs in my life. For 
 the rest my occupations were wholly agricultural, 
 varied, of course, by the arrival of holidays of cattle- 
 show and Fourth-of-July. (Muster or training day, I 
 am sorry to say, had perished before I came upon the 
 scene.) To these may be added and they could not 
 well be omitted from the N. E. calendar March 
 Meeting, Thanksgiving and fast day. In brief, as here 
 shown, my early surroundings were those of a solitary 
 New England farmhouse with a glebe attached, and 
 which, like the Sabine farm of Horace, was in the wind 
 ing vale valle reducta" with its wooded ridge be 
 hind, the wood coming down about to the back-door 
 of the house, with its clear spring or well in which the 
 bucket the iron-bound bucket, the moss-covered 
 bucket"- - always hung from the old-fashioned sweep. 
 This old homestead, like so many others, long since 
 passed from the possession of its rightful and original 
 owners. I shall always regret this, as I shall never 
 cease to be grateful that I was born and brought up on 
 a farm in the country, nay, that I had for a time, and 
 the best time of my life, the time of boyhood and youth, 
 in that 
 
 " Greenest of green valleys, 
 By good angels tenanted." 
 
 These angels, surely, were the joys of Health and Labor, 
 Sleep, Knowledge, Religion, Hope and the boundless 
 Heart of Youth. And to this peculiar environment, to 
 that strange and solitary farm, with some Celtic blood 
 in my veins, I owe, undoubtedly, that vein of romanti 
 cism, of poetry, and mysticism or enthusiasm which is a 
 marked trait of my intellectual character. And if it 
 
12 Memorial 
 
 has sometimes touched and darkened my life with the 
 deepest shadows, with omens of fate and of dire calam 
 ity, if it has wrung my heart with doubts and with 
 agonies unspeakable, it has also opened to me paths 
 of never-ending enjoyment. It has also cheered and 
 consoled me with my beautiful visions along the way 
 of life. It led me first to school away from home, to 
 the country academy and subsequently to college. 
 It opened to me, in a word, the inexhaustible fountains 
 of classic lore, and those farther realms of philosophy 
 and science which unite to make the fortunes of a soul. 
 After spending four years at Williams, I returned home, 
 teaching for a season, and, I am sorry to say, failing 
 miserably in that vocation. I had neither the patience 
 nor the training for a successful school-teacher. 
 
 In 1857, a few years after graduation, I went to the 
 Cambridge Divinity School, where I passed three years 
 in studying for the ministry. The Cambridge School 
 theology was of a liberal order, and I was told on enter 
 ing not to be bound by any creed, not to swear by the 
 words of any writer. My religious history and experi 
 ence, so far as I have had one, was in accord with this 
 enlightened principle, and I did earnestly hope to 
 devote my life to a ministry which should exemplify, in 
 carriage and conduct, this goodly thought. But the 
 tendency of all institutional religion is to fixed forms 
 of faith, to creed and dogma; in a word, to some species 
 of ecclesiasticism. It is, perhaps, inevitable that re 
 ligion should take these forms; and as, to a mind wholly 
 emancipated, there is really but little choice in the 
 different creed-forms of the churches, whether termed 
 liberal or evangelical, the natural result was first, pro 
 test; second, revolt; and finally resignation, or laying 
 
3tife of tofjn J>afcar is 
 
 down of the ministerial office and functions. All 
 church men seemed to me to be in bondage to their 
 church; all were fettered by chains forged for them or 
 by them, and all consequently were distasteful to a 
 mind which prized nothing so much as absolute free 
 dom from trammel, in honest seeking for truth. But he 
 who assumes the clerical office is supposed to be no 
 longer seeking; he has already come to a knowledge of 
 the truth. I therefore, after a few trials, gave up the 
 ministry, and the war breaking out I enlisted in the 
 47th M. N. M. It appeared my duty then to defend 
 the flag, and religion did not forbid it. I embarked 
 one day in December, 1862, at Brooklyn, New York, 
 on board of a transport steamer bound for New Orleans. 
 Our regiment landed there on the first day of the year 
 1863 the day when the proclamation of emancipation 
 went into effect and was assigned to guard duty near 
 the city, at that time under General Banks. We did 
 not participate in any engagement, although guns from 
 Port Hudson could be heard where we were; in fact, 
 I remember giving a Fourth-of July-address to the sol 
 diers in camp, which was punctuated by the enemy s 
 cannon. After nine months of service the regiment 
 returned home, going up the Mississippi River, which 
 was just then opened. 
 
 I returned again to my books and pen, which had been 
 temporarily laid aside; preached occasionally; feeling 
 still a great interest in the issues of the war. I joined 
 the Sanitary Commission in the winter of 1864-65, 
 went to City Point and continued in hospital service 
 till the close of the war. After that I returned to 
 Cambridge, Massachusetts, to reside. Was settled 
 for a year at South Hingham; went West, still with 
 
14 jftemorial Volume 
 
 some ministerial prospects in view; was greatly im 
 pressed with the country, which seemed to be "all out 
 of doors," and with the character of the Western 
 people, as the brags of creation. I grew tired of that 
 enormous conceit of country which seemed to possess 
 them. Every man was owner of a sphere, and carried 
 the earth in fee simple in his vest pocket. The flatness 
 of society answered the flatness of the earth around 
 there; I longed again for the hills of New England. 
 
 I went to Florida in October, 1868, prospecting there 
 with a view to settlement. My idea was to plant an 
 orange-grove, and hoped to have an income in a few 
 years sufficient to live pleasantly in the "land of 
 flowers." But the country was new, without roads or 
 bridges, and outside the pale of civilization. I nearly 
 relapsed into savagery, living three months alone in a 
 hollow tree, and making no advances towards the 
 Utopia of my dreams, an orange crop which exists 
 as yet only in my imagination. I could not afford to 
 wait ten years for an orange-grove to grow up, and 
 meanwhile support myself by the labor of my hands, 
 especially as I had no companions, or rather no com 
 panion. After six months trial I gave up the scheme 
 and turned my steps back again to civilization. Having 
 still some bookish tastes, I sought and obtained the post 
 of assistant librarian in the Academy of Arts and Sci 
 ences, in Boston. I remained there about a year and 
 then made application through General Garfield, which 
 was favorably received by Mr. Spofford, Librarian of 
 Congress, in Washington, D. C. This was in the spring 
 of 1871. 
 WASHINGTON, October, 1881. 
 
%ife of rtm Jafrar is 
 
 FROM 
 
 "A GENEALOGICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL 
 RECORD 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SAVARY FAMILIES (SAVORY AND SAVARY) 
 
 AND OF THE 
 
 SEVERY FAMILY 
 (SEVERIT, SAVERY, SAVORY AND SAVARY) 
 
 BY A. W. SAVARY, M. A., OF ANNAPOLIS ROYAL, NOVA SCOTIA 
 
 ASSISTED IN THE GENEALOGY BY 
 
 Miss LYDIA A. SAVARY OF EAST WAREHAM, MASS." 
 
 PAGE 177. THE SEVERY FAMILY AND SAVERYS OF 
 THE SAME ORIGIN 
 
 The first American progenitor of this family I have 
 found at Marblehead, which although not organized 
 until about 1635, had been settled about 1629 by 
 immigrants from the islands of Jersey and Guernsey, 
 commonly called the Channel Islands, off the coast of 
 France, the only possessions of the Dukes of Nor 
 mandy which are now subject to the English Crown. 
 In the Civil War between Charles I and his Parliament, 
 Jersey was Episcopalian and Loyalist, and Guernsey 
 Parliamentarian and Puritan. There is a family of 
 Sivret or Syvret in both islands, from one of which I 
 suspect the branch now treated of came; the name first 
 appearing on the records of Marblehead and adjacent 
 towns, in the form Sivret. The coat-of-arms of the 
 Syvrets of Jersey, as given in Burke s "General 
 Armory," is "Sable a lion rampant argent." The 
 name under the form Sivret exists to-day among the 
 
16 jftemoriai Volume 
 
 Acadian French of New Brunswick. Many of the old 
 Norman-French names of the early settlers of Marble- 
 head have been superseded in later generations by 
 names of English sound, or translations, some of the 
 latter not by any means literal; and the change in this 
 name, as in many others, arose from the attempt by 
 school teachers, town clerks, and pastors of churches 
 to spell phonetically in English a peculiar French name. 
 An Englishman, unversed in the French language, 
 hearing a French-speaking man pronounce the name 
 "Sivret," and desiring to write it down, would be 
 almost sure to write it Scivery (Sciv-ery) or Severy. 
 Either of these two combinations of letters would, to 
 an Englishman, convey very nearly, and with about 
 equal effect, the name as it would be pronounced by a 
 Frenchman. As those acquainted with the French 
 language know, the letter t at the end of a word is not 
 sounded as it is in English. It merely gives a little 
 shade of difference to the sound of the e preceding it. 
 The French termination et would be as nearly as pos 
 sible pronounced as eh would be by an Englishman; but 
 a purely English name never ends with such a com 
 bination as eh. For these reasons the name came to 
 be written Severy or Scivery, the latter on the church, 
 the former on the town records, while it was often also 
 spelt Sevrit and Severit, from a lingering knowledge 
 that the , although silent, really belonged there. Once 
 the form Severy became established, town historians 
 and registrars everywhere mistook the name for a cor 
 ruption of the more familiar Savery, and thus widened 
 and perpetuated the divergence from the original, 
 making "confusion worse confounded," and sad work 
 indeed among genealogists and searchers of titles. At 
 
Hife of f aH afoar 17 
 
 Marblehead and Wenham we find the name connected 
 contemporaneously with the Christian names Thomas, 
 Andrew, Peter, James, and John; and soon afterwards 
 we meet at Marblehead, Clement, Gregory, and 
 Philip, redolent of the Channel Islands and France; and 
 the more Puritan and biblically associated names 
 Jonathan, David, Solomon, still common in the family, 
 appeared simultaneously in branches widely separated 
 for generations. Among the soldiers in King Philip s 
 War were Edward and John Severy, of Marblehead, and 
 others of the name, and the family contributed a re 
 markable number to all the wars in which the colonies 
 and the United States were engaged. Marblehead is 
 said to have contained six hundred widows at the close 
 of the Revolutionary War, and five hundred of her 
 citizens were prisoners of war in England at the close 
 of the War of 1812. The estate of Peter Sevore, or 
 Sevoree, who died, it would seem, at Marblehead, was 
 administered by his brother Thomas, May 14, 1685, 
 and that of Andrew by his wife Mary, May 21, 1715. 
 I think the same Peter was of Wenham, in 1684, for I 
 find there recorded: "Mary, daughter to Peter and 
 Mary Severy, born 16.1. 1684." But the Mary 
 Sevrit whose "intent of marrig" to Jonathan Moulton, 
 "both of Wenham," was published May 31, 1713, and 
 "certificate given" June 18, was probably daughter of 
 the first John. It would seem likely that Andrew, who 
 by wife Mary had a child born to him in 1683, and 
 Thomas, who by wife Elizabeth had apparently five 
 children born before 1699, were, with Peter, brothers 
 of the first John of Wenham. The early settlers of 
 Marblehead gave great concern to the General Court 
 by their lack of devotion to the church and its rules, 
 
is jftemorial Bolume 
 
 and I believe organized no church whatever until after 
 those of Ipswich and Wenham were organized, but the 
 town had Episcopal missionaries, from a very early 
 date. 
 
 I. 
 
 John (I) Sevrit, Severit, or Severy must have been 
 born between Nov. 8, 1644, and the same date in 1645, 
 for, according to Wenham records, "John Severi died 
 Nov. 8, 1742, in the ninety-eighth year of his age." 
 "Goodwife Severit" had died March, 1737. The 
 earliest mention of his name is on the Probate record 
 of Essex County, where it appears that, in 1680, John 
 Severy charged the estate of John Harris, of Marble- 
 head, for "providing his coffin and digging his grave." 
 According to the new "History of Essex County," 
 sub cap. Wenham, he removed to Wenham in 1695, 
 his name in connection with his settlement there being 
 spelt Severett. Here also, as at Marblehead, the 
 records show that he was employed from the first with 
 the last rites to the dead, and thus is more clearly 
 identified. Besides probably others, he had the follow 
 ing 
 
 CHILDREN 
 
 John, Joseph, Mary, James. 
 
 SECOND GENERATION 
 
 JOSEPH (II) SEVERIT or SEVERY (John I) was born 
 May 4, 1690, before his father s removal from Marble- 
 head to Wenham. His intent of marriage, under the 
 name "Joseph Saverit, of Wenham," to Mary Crocker 
 of Topsfield, was recorded July 13, 1712. She died 
 March 8, 1712-13; and on Sept. 13, 1713, we find again 
 an "intent of marrig" between Joseph Saverit, of 
 

of ton afcar 19 
 
 Wenham, and Sarah Stockwell, of Ipswich, not 
 4 Joseph Severy, of Ipswich, and Sarah Stockwell, of 
 Rehoboth," as Tracy, doubtless relying on tradition, 
 gives it in his * History of Sutton." In Ipswich he was 
 published as Joseph "Seavery." His wife is said to 
 have been a sister to the five brothers Stockwell, of 
 Rehoboth, who removed thence to Sutton, Oxford 
 County, among the earliest settlers. Before moving 
 to Sutton he lived in Ipswich or Rehoboth, perhaps 
 consecutively in both places, and settled in Sutton, 
 with four children already born to him, about 1728. 
 The farm he first owned there he sold, and bought one 
 a little north from it, which remained in the family one 
 hundred and forty years or upwards. His descendants 
 are most widely scattered all over the Union, and the 
 progressive variations in the spelling of their names 
 render them most difficult to trace. He died Nov. 14, 
 1761, aged, according to the family record from which 
 I compute the day of his birth, 71 years 6 months 10 
 days; and his widow, April 4, 1770, aged 81 years 5 
 months 26 days. 
 
 CHILDREN 
 
 Joseph, Sarah, John, Mary, John, Benjamin, Jacob, 
 Thomas. 
 
 THIRD GENERATION 
 
 JOSEPH SEVERY, JR. (Joseph 2, John i), was born 
 June 26, 1714; and married Susanna Stockwell, who 
 died Jan. 14, 1762, in her fifty-third year. He settled 
 in that part of Sutton which is now Millbury, and died 
 Jan. 14, 1800. 
 
 CHILDREN 
 
 Mary, Susanna, Hannah, Hannah, Joseph, Eunice, 
 David, Jonathan. 
 
20 Memorial Volume 
 
 FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 JOSEPH SEVERY (Joseph 3, Joseph 2, John i) was 
 born Jan. 13, 1744, probably at Sutton; married 
 Rebecca , and had: 
 
 CHILDREN 
 
 Joseph Emerson 5, b. March n, 1767, who was an 
 only son, and probably only child. 
 
 FIFTH GENERATION 
 
 JOSEPH EMERSON SEVERY (Joseph 4, Joseph 3, 
 Joseph 2, John i) was born March n, 1767; married 
 Miriam Stone; lived in Auburn, and died in 1829; his 
 widow in 1846, in the eighty-fifth year of her age. 
 
 CHILDREN 
 I. Stephen 6, b. Aug. 30, 1791. 
 
 SIXTH GENERATION 
 
 STEPHEN SAVARY (Joseph Emerson 5, Joseph 4, 
 Joseph 3, Joseph 2, John i) was born Aug. 30, 1791; 
 and married (intentions published Oct. 5, 1816) Daphne 
 Hall, who was born June 23, 1800. By the advice of 
 his preceptor in the Lancaster Academy, where he was 
 educated, he was led to change the spelling of the name 
 to Savary. He died July 29, 1868; and his widow 
 followed him July 30, 1883. The sketch of the life, 
 times, and character of this lady by her son John is a 
 most interesting paper, and deserves perpetual preserva 
 tion by her descendants. She was of the "best type" 
 of the New England matron of a past generation, be 
 longing to that great army of brave and silent workers 
 who made the New England of to-day." 
 
22 fflemoriat Volume 
 
 seventeen; entered Williams College 1851, graduated 
 1855; graduated from Harvard Divinity School, and 
 licensed to preach as a Unitarian minister in Autumn of 
 1860. War breaking out soon after his ordination, he 
 joined the national army as a private with the promise 
 of a chaplaincy; served under General Banks in New 
 Orleans in 1862 and 1863, and was connected with the 
 Sanitary Commission at the close of the war; returning 
 home, engaged for a time in the work of the ministry, 
 but at length abandoned it, and has since been em 
 ployed as an assistant in the library of Congress. Is 
 a writer of felicity and power both in prose and poetry, 
 author of a memorial ode to President Garfield, etc. 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE HALLS OF NEW ENGLAND 
 
 GENEALOGICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL 
 BY REV. DAVID B. HALL, A. M., OF DUANESBURGH, N. Y. 
 
 ANCESTRY OF DAPHNE HALL, MOTHER OF JOHN SAVARY 
 
 HALLS OF MEDFORD 
 
 The emigrant ancestor was 
 
 JOHN HALL I, son of Widow Mary Hall, of Cam 
 bridge. He was born in England, 1627; d. in Medford, 
 Mass., Oct. 18, 1701, ae. 74 years; m. April 2, 1656, 
 Elizabeth, dau. of Percival and Ellen Green, of Cam 
 bridge. John Hall took the oath of fidelity in Middle 
 sex Co., 1652, and in the same year the town of Cam 
 bridge apportioned to him 20 acres of church land in 
 Billerica. He resided in Concord, Mass., several years 
 previous to 1667, when he returned to Cambridge, and 
 in 1675 removed to Medford, about 8 miles from Bos- 
 
fc of ffofru abatp 23 
 
 ton, where he purchased a farm of Caleb Robert, June 
 27, 1675, and gave a mortgage on it the same day for 
 260, and which he paid May 2, 1681. 
 
 The records of Medford begin in 1674, but very little 
 is written before 1677, when John Hall was chosen con 
 stable and selectman, which at that time were the most 
 important offices of the town. 
 
 Dea. Thomas Willis and John Hall were chosen select 
 men, March 12, 1690. In 1699 John Hall made his 
 will, dividing his large landed estate between his sons, 
 who were to pay his daughter s portion in money, and 
 his widow Elizabeth had rights reserved for her during 
 her life, and had the use of a portion of the house and cel 
 lar; Stephen and Thomas had the house and land near it. 
 The house was situated a few rods east of the railroad 
 depot in West Medford, and was demolished many 
 years ago, and the old cellar filled up in 1876; Daniel 
 A. Gleason, who married a descendant of John Hall, 
 owns a house and lot in Medford near where the old 
 house stood. 
 
 In the old burying-ground in Medford is a thick 
 slate grave-stone about as wide as it is high, and arched 
 at the top; in the arch is a death s head, under which 
 stands an hour-glass, flanked by two winged figures; 
 at one of the upper corners is written * Memento Mori," 
 at the other Tugit hora," and on the body of the stone 
 is engraved as follows: 
 
 Here lies the body of JOHN HALL, aged 74 years. 
 
 Died the i8th of Oct., 1701. 
 The memory of the Just is blessed." 
 
 By the side of this stone is another on which is en 
 graved: "In memory of Elizabeth, wife of John Hall, 
 who died Feb. 4, 1713, in the 74th year of her age." 
 
24 Memorial Volume 
 
 And on the other side of the first-mentioned stone is 
 a smaller one: "In memory of William Hall, aged 19 
 years, who died Jan. 4, 1683." 
 
 Children of John and Elizabeth Hall were: Eliza 
 beth, . . . John, . . . William, . . . Nathaniel, . . . 
 Mary, . . . Stephen, . . . Percival, b. in Cam 
 bridge, Feb. ii, 1672. . . . (Also other children to 
 the number of eleven.) 
 
 SECOND GENERATION 
 
 PERCIVAL HALL 2, John i; b. in Cambridge, Feb. n, 
 1672; d. in Sutton, Mass., Dec. 25, 1752, ae. 80 years; 
 m. in Woburn, Oct. 18, 1697, Jane, dau. of Thomas and 
 Grace (Tay) Willis, b. Oct. 1677, d. Oct. 28, 1757, ae. 
 80 years. Percival Hall of Medford owned the 
 covenant of the church of Cambridge in order to have 
 his children baptized; and son Percival was baptized, 
 Nov. 20, 1698; he and his wife were admitted to full 
 communion Dec. 31, 1699; he was one of the founders 
 of the church of Medford, Feb. n, 1713, and was 
 chosen deacon in place of his father-in-law, Thomas 
 Willis, who resigned on account of old age, March 9, 
 1720. He was proprietor of Sutton in 1720, and re 
 moved to that place in the fall of 1720, or in the follow 
 ing spring; was dismissed from the church of Medford, 
 Dec. 3, 1721, and with his wife was admitted to the 
 church of Sutton the same month, and not long after 
 was chosen the 2d deacon of that church; he became a 
 very prominent and efficient man in both town and 
 church affairs. He appeared to be the chief means of 
 the settlement of his kinsman, Rev. David Hall, from 
 Yarmouth, over the church of Sutton; he was a very 
 large landed proprietor, and represented the town in 
 

 MRS. ALICE HALLFRAZIER 
 
of ^n afcar 25 
 
 General Court (see History of Sutton). His grandson, 
 Jonathan Hall of Windsor, Vt., said that "he was a 
 short, thick man, and a great worker." His grave is 
 .... in Sutton Center, but there is no grave-stone 
 erected his to memory .... His children were: 
 Percival, . . . Jane, . . . Elizabeth, . . . Mary, . . . 
 Martha, . . . Stephen . . . (And others to the num 
 ber of twelve.) 
 
 THIRD GENERATION 
 
 STEPHEN HALL 3 (Percival 2 John i); b. in Medford 
 Apr. 2, 1709; d. in Sutton, Jan. 29, 1787, ae. 78; m., 
 Apr. 17, 1745, Sarah Taft, widow of Samuel Read, of 
 Uxbridge, and before that the widow of John Brown, 
 who was a widower when he married her. 
 
 Stephen Hall was a farmer, and probably had a por 
 tion of his father s homestead in Sutton, and built the 
 house in 1752, which is now owned by John Armsby. 
 It was kept in the family for four generations; he was a 
 tall, broad-shouldered man, and served as lieutenant 
 and quartermaster in the old French and Indian war 
 from 1755 to 1760. His wife was received from the 
 church of Uxbridge by the church of Sutton, Feb. 23, 
 1746. Children were: 
 
 I. Stephen, b. Jan. 24, 1747; bap. Feb. 23, 1747 . . . 
 (And others to the number of seven.) 
 
 FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 STEPHEN HALL 4 (Stephen 3, Percival 2, John i), b. 
 in Sutton Jan. 24, 1747; m. Abigail Spring, of Newton, 
 Mass.; he was a farmer and resided on his father s farm 
 in Sutton. Children were: 
 
 i. Abigail, b. Dec. 7, 1770. 2. Stephen, b. March 
 4, 1773 . . . (And others to the number of eight.) 
 
26 emorial Boiume 
 
 FIFTH GENERATION 
 
 STEPHEN HALL 5 (Stephen 4, Stephen 3, Percival 2, 
 John i), b. in Sutton, March 4, 1773 ; d. 1827; m., Dec., 
 1708, Polly Stone, called Molly, dau. of Daniel Stone, 
 of Sutton. Children were: 
 
 I. Kelsey, b. Apr. 27, 1799; d. of yellow fever at New 
 Orleans, in 1822 or 1823. Daphne, b. June 25, 1800. 
 3. Therel Luther, b. Aug. 29, 1801. 4. Moody, d. 
 in infancy. 5. Olivet, b. Oct. 13, 1803; d. in Boston 
 in 1852. 6. Merinda, b. Oct. 17, 1804. Acosta, b. 
 May 6, 1806. Pelthira, b. June 17, 1809. Deolphus 
 Stephen Moody Stone, b. June 22, 1811; d. Oct. 23, 
 1811. 10. Zera Spring, b. July 27, 1813. n. Eltheda 
 Gould, b. Feb. 13, 1815. 12. Zera, b. 1818; d. July, 
 1832. 13. Amanda A. Stone, b. July 16, 1820. 
 
 (Daphne, the mother of John Savary, Acosta, who 
 m. Albigence Williams, and resided in Woonsocket; 
 Pelthira, who m. Elisha Brown, and lived in Wales, 
 Massachusetts; Eltheda G., who m. James Fuller of 
 Southbridge, Mass., and resided in Hartford, Conn.; 
 and Amanda A. S., who m. Cornelius Putnam and 
 resided in Webster, Mass. These five sisters of Therel 
 Luther Hall, who resided in Sutton, were remarkable 
 for their energy and ability. They had a warm 
 affection for each other, which increased rather than 
 diminished as their years and cares increased, and their 
 family reunions, often held at their brother s, are the 
 happiest and merriest recollections of their nieces and 
 nephews to this day. Their names and families to 
 gether with other particulars are given below.) Note 
 by M. H. S. 
 
MRS. CLOVER SJBLEY KAIKCHER 
 
of tt afcar 27 
 
 SIXTH GENERATION 
 
 DAPHNE HALL 6 (Stephen 5, Stephen 4, Stephen 3, 
 Percival 2, John i), b. in Sutton, June 25, 1800; m. 
 Stephen Severy, of Auburn, Mass. Children were: 
 (See Savary records for the first five) 6 John, b. Nov. 
 4, 1832; graduated at Williams College; studied theol 
 ogy at Cambridge, became a Unitarian minister, settled 
 as pastor of church in Newton and Hingham, was in 
 the U. S. service during the war for the Union, and was 
 in the library of congress, at Washington, D. C., until 
 Oct., 1897. 
 
 THEREL LUTHER 6, pedigree as before; b. Aug. 29, 
 1801; residence, Sutton; m. Lucy Thurston Holman, 
 probably grand-daughter of David and Lucy Thurston 
 Holman, of Sutton, son of Edward, son of Solomon, 
 who came from Wales to Newbury, Mass., about 1693, 
 by way of the Bermuda Islands. Children were: 
 
 i. Stephen, b. in Sutton, Dec. 10, 1824; d. Aug. 24, 
 
 1828. 2. Albert, b. in Sutton, Apr. 18, 1826; d. Sept. 
 
 20, 1829. 3. George Washington, b. in Sutton, Sept. 
 
 21, 1827. 4. Stephen Henry, b. in Sutton, Apr. 2, 
 
 1829. 5. Lydia Ann, b. in Sutton, Feb. 13, 1831. 
 6. Albert Franklin, b. in Millbury, Aug. 4, 1832. 7. 
 d. at birth. 8. Mary Elizabeth, b. in Auburn, Dec. 
 4, 1837. Mary Elizabeth, b. Dec. 4, 1837; m. Francis 
 Stephen Sibley, son of Deacon Stephen Sibley of 
 Auburn, Mass., Aug. 19, 1873. Her husband died Jan 
 uary 8, 1883. Children were: I. Clover Louise, b. 
 April 25, 1875; m. July 20, 1910, to Louis A. Karcher of 
 Boston. 2. John Ralph, b. Jan. 16, 1877; m. July 
 14, 1909, Mary Caroline Root of Boston. 9. Lucy 
 
28 jmemoriat Botume 
 
 Jane, b. in Auburn, June 23, 1839. 10. Luther Free 
 man, b. in Worcester, Jan. 23, 1843. 
 
 MERINDA HALL 6, pedigree as before; b. in Sutton, 
 Oct. 17, 1804; m. Amasa Hart, of Auburn. Children 
 were: 
 
 I. William, was a soldier in the war for the Union, 
 was taken prisoner and d. in Libby prison. 2. Martha. 
 3. Mary. 4. Susan. 5. Edwin. NOTE. (Mary and 
 Susan have died since this book was published. 
 M. H. S.) 
 
 ACOSTA HALL 6, pedigree as before; b. May 6, 1806; 
 m. Albigence Williams, a mechanic of Woonsocket Falls, 
 R. I. Children were: (Acosta died May 27, 1891; 
 Albigence d. March 28, 1879.) 
 
 I. Abbie, m. Ezra M. Stockwell, mechanic, Woon 
 socket. 2. Lottie (Charlotte), m. George D. W. Dyer, 
 mechanic, of Woonsocket. (NOTE. Charlotte d. Aug. 
 23, 1911. M. H. S.) 3. Henry P., m. Katie E. Pratt, 
 of Chelsea, Mass.; he is express agent on the Providence 
 and Worcester R. R.; was a soldier in the war for the 
 Union, in the 5th R. I. Vols., served through the war, 
 was ist lieutenant; residence, Woonsocket Falls, R. I. 
 (NOTE. d. in 1902. M. H. S.) Wife died Sept. 3, 1906. 
 
 PELTHIRA HALL 6, pedigree as before; b. June 17, 
 1809; m. Nov. 10, 1829, Elisha Brown, a farmer of 
 Wales, Mass. Children were: (NOTE. Married, 2d, 
 Elder Baker, retired Methodist preacher, 188?; d. 
 189?. M. H. S.) 
 
 I. Charles E., b. Apr. 29, 1830; d. July I, 1832. 
 
 2. William H., b. May 18, 1832; d. Sept. 12, 1832. 
 
 3. Eltheda A., b. June 22, 1833. 4. Harriet M., b. 
 May 7, 1835. 5. Charles A., b. Aug. 10, 1837. 6. 
 Horatio H., b. May 30, 1839. 7. Susan M., b. June 
 
MRS. NELLIE HALL POPE 
 
of K atoar 29 
 
 26, 1843. 8. William, b. Apr. 18, 1845, d. Aug. 23, 
 1845. 9. Emma T., b. May 12, 1846; d. March n, 
 1847. 10. James L., b. Sept 18, 1848; d. July 21, 
 1849. ii. Clara, b. Aug. 29, 1853; m -> Oct. 28, 1873, 
 William Rhodes, of Wales, Mass. 
 
 ELTHEDA G. HALL 6, pedigree as before; b. Feb. 13, 
 1815; m., May 24, 1833, James Fuller, manufacturer, 
 from Southbridge, Mass.; residence, Hartford, Conn. 
 Children were: 
 
 I. Charles J., b. Feb. 8, 1834; m., Jan. I, 1860, Mary 
 E. Whiton; is a merchant. 2. Lovice Gay, b. July 31, 
 1836; d. Feb. 6, 1837. 3. Adelaide E., b. Sept. 21, 
 1840; d. Apr. 27, 1842. 4. Jerome H., b. Feb. 18, 
 1843; d. Oct. 25, 1864. (NOTE. Charles and Jerome 
 were soldiers in the war for the Union, and Jerome 
 starved to death in prison. M. H. S.) Ella A., b. 
 June 7, 1847; m. Mr. Meyer, 190?. 
 
 AMANDA A. S. HALL 6, pedigree as before; b. July 
 16, 1820; m. Cornelius Putnam, of Sutton, blacksmith; 
 residence Webster, Mass.; had one child: 
 
 i. Banfield, b. May 10, 1843; m. 1865, Emmalaide 
 Hall of Webster, and had: 
 
 I. Mildred E., b. July 20, 1869. (NOTE. M., 1893, 
 Walter Ray of Woonsocket; lives in Woonsocket, R. L 
 M. H. S.) 2. Edith Maud, b. May 13, 1873. (NOTE 
 M., 1902, Henry Whitcomb of Worcester, Mass.; re 
 sides in Spencer, Mass. M. H. S.) 
 
so jftemorial Volume 
 
 FAMILES OF JOHN SAVARY S BROTHERS AND 
 
 SISTERS 
 
 NANCY SEVERY 7, . . . ; b. in Sutton, June 16, 
 1817; m. Smith Baker, manufacturer of woolen goods, 
 Douglas, Mass. Children were: 
 
 I. Dau., d. in infancy. 2. Francis. 3. Henry, m. 
 Catharine Creighton, of Maine; was a soldier in the 
 war for the Union, in the I5th Regt., Mass. Vols.; was 
 wounded in the battle of Gettysburg and disabled 
 for service; receives a pension. 4. George H., m. 
 Ellen Darling of Charlton, Mass., and had i, a son, 
 d. at the age of one year; 2. A dau., d. in n days; he 
 served in the war for the Union in the 2d Mass. Cavalry. 
 (NOTE. George d. 1906. M. H. S.) 
 
 LOUISA SEVERY 7, . . . ; b. in Sutton, March 27, 
 1820; m. George W. Darling of Rhode Island. Chil 
 dren were: 
 
 I. Jacob, b. 1845. 2. Eugene, b. 1847; m. Ellen 
 Knight, of Uxbridge; railroad engineer. 3. Jerome, b. 
 1849; m. Fanny Gilman of Worchester, is a printer (in 
 Cambridge). M. H. S. Ruth M., b. 1851; m. A. W. 
 Tufts. (NOTE. Ruth d. in Worcester, 187? M.H. S.) 
 
 MARION S. SEVERY 7, . . . ; b. April 13, 1823; d. 
 Jan. 17, 1839; m. Sanford A. Inman, of Oxford, Mass.; 
 farmer, formerly of Rhode Island. Children were: 
 
 i. Henry A., b. Oct. 28, 1844; m., Dec. I, 1867, 
 Marion Waters of Sutton; bookkeeper of Boston. 
 (Dead. M. H. S.) 2. Frederic A., b. May 18, 1846, 
 expressman. 3. Caroline V., b. Dec. 2, 1848; m., Dec. 
 2, 1866, Louis T. Carpenter, farmer, and had, I, Maria, 
 b. Nov. 28, 1867; 2, Sophia, b. March 19, 1869; 3, Carrie 
 
aiife of Sfrfrn atotp 31 
 
 Maud, b. Oct. 21, 1873. 4. Edward H., b. Oct. 10, 1850; 
 d. May 3, 1852. 5. Nelson S., b. Dec. 16, 1856. 
 (NOTE. This is where the one called Mabel, mother of 
 little Sophia Maud Cable, should appear. M. H. S.) 
 
 STEPHEN AUGUSTUS SEVERY 7, . . . ; b. Sept. 12, 
 1825; m. Georgie Case of Millbury. Children were: 
 
 I. A dau./b. 1867; d. in infancy. 2. Wendell A., 
 b. 1869. 
 
 FAMILIES OF THE CHILDREN OF THEREL 
 
 LUTHER HALL, BROTHER OF DAPHNE 
 
 HALL, THE MOTHER OF 
 
 JOHN SAVARY 
 
 GEORGE W. HALL 7, . . . ; b. in Sutton, Sept. 21, 
 1827; m. Susan E. Mayers, b. in Dresden, Maine, Aug. 
 30, 1842; farmer, of Millbury, Mass. Children were: 
 
 Eugene S. Hall, born July 23, 1869. Married, 188-. 
 Died Jan. 4, 1904. 
 
 Bessie M. Hall, b. Mar. 29, 1870; m. Chas. A. Shurn, 
 Dec. 6, 1887. 
 
 Arthur A. Hall, b. Oct. 9, 1877; m -> Nov. 6, 1903, 
 Hannah Geekie. 
 
 H. Mildred Hall, b. May 29, 1878; m., May 28, 1896, 
 Everett W. Sweet. 
 
 1. Alice Thurston, b. in Millbury, Dec. 23, 1866. 
 (NOTE. M. William F. Frazier. Children were: i. 
 George W., b. June 20, 1889; 2. Mary, b. Nov. 13, 1892; 
 3. Helena, b. Feb. 2, 1895; 4. William, b. Apr. 10, 1897, 
 accidentally drowned, July 8, 1901; 5. Lawrence, b. 
 May 16, 1899; 6. Blanche, b. Jan. 6, 1903. 
 
 2. Silas Eugene, b. in Worcester, July 22, 1868. 
 (NOTE. M. and d.) 
 
32 
 
 3. Bessie Maud, b. in Millbury, March 29, 1870. 
 (NOTE. M. Charles A. Shurn, of Millbury, 188- and 
 had one son, Charles, who died 190- (7 or 8). 
 
 4. Arthur, b. -- ; m. - . 
 
 5. Mildred, b. - ; m. Everett Sweet. 
 
 6. Lena M., b. - ; m. - - Burt; m. 2d, - 
 Buxton. Resides in Newcastle, Wyoming. 
 
 STEPHEN HENRY HALL, . . . ; b. Apr. 2, 1829; m., 
 1850, Alice Eliza Haven, of Leicester, Mass.; residence, 
 Brighton, Mass.; served through the war for the Union 
 as private in 1st Mass, battery, light artillery. No 
 children. (NOTE. Adopted two, a boy and a girl, 
 and brought them up as his own. M. H. S.) Is fore 
 man in the freight department of the Boston & Albany 
 Railroad. (NOTE. He d. in Spencer, Mass., July, 
 1905 (?). 
 
 LYDIA ANN HALL, . . . ; b. Feb. 13, 1831; d. in 
 Havana, N. Y., June n, 1854; m., Oct. 22, 1848, James 
 M. Johnson; now resides in Providence, R. I. Children 
 were: 
 
 i. Flora A., b. in Havana, N. Y.; d. May 16, 1850. 
 2. Mary F., b. Aug. 13, 1852. (NOTE. M. Joseph 
 Bryant, 18 , and had 3 children, who lived to ma 
 turity: Bertha, Irving, and Clifton. They all reside 
 in Los Angeles, Cal. The elder son, Irving, and the 
 daughter are married. 
 
 ALBERT F. HALL 7, pedigree as above; b. in Mill- 
 bury, Aug. 4, 1832; d. Aug. 14, 1865; m. Catharine 
 Maria Bulchrine, of Boston. He served as a soldier 
 in the war for the Union, in 15th Regt. Mass. Vols., 
 afterwards in gunboat service in New Orleans and 
 Fort Donaldson, Fort Henry, Island No. 10, Vicks- 
 burg, etc., and was honorably discharged on account 
 
MRS. ACOSTA HALL WILLIAMS 
 
 MRS. CHARLOTTE WILLIAMS DYER 
 
 MRS. ABBIE WILLIAMS STOCKWEL 
 
%ife of on atoar 33 
 
 of being sick; he re-enlisted in the 1st Reg. Mass. 
 Light Battery and died in the service at City Point, 
 Va., Aug. 14, 1865. Children were: 
 
 i. Anna Viola, d. in infancy. Nellie Viola, b. July 
 5, 1853; m. Irvine Clarendon Pope, now physician in 
 Holliston, Mass., and had sons Ernest Albert and 
 Sydney Lemuel. Ernest died, 1905. Georgiana Frances, 
 b. 1855; m. Harry Rogers and had daughters, Sarah 
 Maria and Lucilla. Family resides in Milford, Mass. 
 
 MARY ELIZABETH HALL 7, . . . ; b. in Auburn, 
 Mass., Dec. 4, 1837; m., at Boston, Aug. 9, 1873, 
 Francis S. Sibley; of Millbury, a dealer in spices, etc. 
 (He d. in 188-.) 
 
 Children were: 
 
 1. Clover Louise, b. - ; m., July 20, 1910, Louis 
 A. Karcher of Boston. 
 
 2. John Ralph, b. ; m., July, 1909, Mary Caroline 
 Root of Boston. 
 
 LUCY JANE HALL 7, . . . ; b. in Auburn, June 23, 
 1839; m., May 19, 1863, Henry L. Shumway of Oxford, 
 local editor of the Worcester Gazette. (He d. April 
 17, 1908.) Children were: 
 
 Mary Eliza, b. April 17, 1864; d. Aug. 14, 1864. 2. 
 Everett Warner, b. March 29, 1867; m., June 28, 1898, 
 Mrs. Affia A. Caldwell of Rutland, Vermont; who d. 
 Oct. 31, 1898; m. 2d, Elizabeth Maxwell of Boston, 
 Aug. 4, 1908, and had Loriston, b. Aug. 15, 1909, and 
 Everett Warner, Jr., b. Oct. i, 1911. 3. Marion Hoi- 
 man, b. Aug. 27, 1869. 
 
 LUTHER FREEMAN HALL, . . . ; b. in Worcester, 
 Jan. 23, 1843; m., 1866, Elizabeth McLane; was a 
 soldier in the war for the Union, in the 2d Reg. Mass. 
 Vols.; was wounded in the battle of Cedar Mountain, 
 
34 lemotial Bolume 
 
 and again at Winchester, on account of which he was 
 honorably discharged; he re-enlisted in the 2d Mass, 
 heavy artillery, and served to the close of the war. 
 Children were: 
 
 Willie Chester, b. Feb. 22, 1867; adopted by Henry 
 S. Hall of Brighton. 2. D. in infancy. 
 
 CHILDREN OF PELTHIRA BROWN, SISTER OF 
 DAPHNE, JOHN SAVARY S MOTHER 
 
 ELTHEDA A. BROWN 7 (Elisha Brown) . . . ; b. 
 June 22, 1833; m., July 4, 1852, Edwin M. Hatch. 
 Children were: 
 
 i. Mary E., b. Nov. 10, 1858; m., March i, 1872, 
 Frank Ware, of Wales, Mass. 2. Ida A., b. Aug. 19, 
 1856. 3. Eva E., b. Aug. 19, 1856. George S., d. 
 Nov. 7, 1862. 
 
 HARRIET M. BROWN 7, . . ; b. May 7, 1835; m - 
 John G. Shaw, of Rhode Island. Children were: 
 
 i. Emma F., b. Nov. 25, 1853, Woonsocket, R. I.; 
 d. Aug. i, 1858. 2. John H., b. Nov. 13, 1857, Woon 
 socket. 3. Herbert C., b. at North Ware, N. H., 
 No. 19, 1862; d. Feb. 6, 1865. 4. Nettie D., b. Nov. 
 7, 1864. 5. Wallace, b. Nov. 27, 1865, Wales, Mass. 
 
 CHARLES AUSTIN BROWN 7, . . . ; b. Aug. 10, 1837, 
 Ironstone, Mass.; m., Jan. 2, 1859, Elizabeth Reynolds, 
 b. Jan. 18, 1840. Children were: 
 
 i. Charles Harris, b. Aug. 24, 1861, at Providence, 
 R. I. 2. Warren Austin, b. May 15, 1869; d. Oct. 9, 
 1869. Mr. Brown was a soldier in the war for the 
 Union, in Battery E, ist R. I. artillery; was soon pro 
 moted from a private, by degrees, to the office of ist 
 lieutenant, and engaged in nearly all the battles of the 
 
"HRS.PELTHYRA HALL BROWN BAK** 
 AND HUSBAND 
 
aiife of Sfrftn abatp 35 
 
 Army of the Potomac up to the time of his capture in 
 the battle of the Wilderness; he was then taken to Rich 
 mond; then to Dansville; then to Macon, Ga., when he 
 effected his escape; but after traveling twelve days, 
 was retaken and traveled back again and placed in a 
 dungeon and kept there for six weeks, then removed 
 to Charleston, S. C.; while on the road eighty of our 
 men, prisoners, jumped from the cars and fled, but were 
 all captured before night of the next day, and taken to 
 Charleston, and placed under the fire of our own guns, 
 which were then shelling the city, and kept there until 
 about the i/|.th of October; they were then removed to 
 Columbus, S. C., and placed in an open field, without 
 shelter, and almost without food, and kept there until 
 about the 4th of November, when, says Mr. Brown, 
 four of us made our escape, and traveled to our lines 
 at Knoxville, Tenn., 500 miles, in 30 days; we lived 
 mostly on parched corn, not daring to see anybody. 
 On our arrival we were in a bad condition, one of us 
 having frozen both of his feet, and had not eaten 
 anything except snow for 100 hours. Lieut. Brown 
 was in command of a cannon at the battle of Gettys 
 burg, the same which was made over to the State of 
 Rhode Island, and received with appropriate ceremony 
 at Providence, in May, 1874. Lieut. Brown resides 
 in Vandewater street, and does business at No. 189 
 Church St., Providence, R. I. 
 
 HORATIO H. BROWN 7, . . . ; b. May 20, 1839; m. 
 ist Annie Chase, of North Ware, N. H.; m. 2d, Sarah 
 Finger, and had: I. Elmer. 2. Alvira. 
 
 SUSAN M. BROWN, . . . ; b. June 26, 1843; m. 
 George S. Willard, of North Ware, N. H.; had one child, 
 Eva, b. Sept. 9, 1862. 
 
PART II 
 
 0oems of 3Jolw 
 
 A FEW THOUGHTS ABOUT TRANSLATIONS 
 
 Mr. Emerson is reported to have said that he would 
 never read an ancient author in the original provided 
 a good translation was accessible; that he would as 
 soon think of swimming Charles River to get to Boston, 
 instead of using the bridge. If the things of an author 
 were alone in question, the comparison would be more 
 just. Translation is a short cut to the matter, and 
 the reader who is intent only on making merchandise 
 of his author can afford to neglect the wrappages of 
 style and diction. It is merely destroying the labels, 
 and transferring the contents from one shaped vessel 
 to another. And when, as in nine cases out of ten, the 
 reader is but imperfectly acquainted with the language 
 of his author and quite insensible to the force of idioms, 
 to grammatical niceties of expression, and the delicate 
 shades and nuances of meaning in the original, he is, 
 perhaps, justified in refusing the laborious office of 
 translating for himself. Very few will accept the 
 trouble, when a good translation lies ready made to 
 hand. Yet it may be said without fear of contradiction 
 that the masterpieces of literature, whether belonging 
 to antiquity or not, can never be understood and appre 
 ciated at their true value, except they be read in the 
 original. There is a strain of honor and of greatness 
 running through the classic authors of antiquity which 
 
 37 
 
38 Jftemorial 
 
 only to have caught the "air" of makes the date and 
 the occasion rememberable forever. One can never 
 be quite the same man as before after reading a tragedy 
 of Sophocles, a dialogue of Plato, or an ode of Horace 
 in the original. He has imbibed a tincture of Greek 
 and Roman letters, and the very mind and spirit of 
 his author has to some extent entered into him. It 
 is felt by every reader of taste and intelligence that 
 there is something about a classic which no translation, 
 however excellent, can possibly convey. It is not 
 merely the words separately, or the thoughts of the 
 original. But it is that beautiful and perfect incarna 
 tion of original thought in language which has been 
 achieved once and forever. To the reverent scholar, 
 the reading of the original is an act of worship; and to 
 lay hands on it for the rude purpose of translation is 
 akin to blasphemy. It is deliberately to mar the 
 image of the maker and to deface its original beauty. 
 It is to divide the joints from the marrow, and to force 
 the iron into the soul of your author. The violent 
 separation of soul from body in a living man is not a 
 greater injury to him than translation often is to a 
 classic author. The definition of a good book as 
 Milton gives it, viz., "the life-blood of a choice spirit 
 treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life," suggests 
 how easy it is to spill the life-blood of an author and to 
 let the spirit and essence of a book evaporate in trans 
 lation. What remains is but a caput mortuum. If 
 there is "a divinity which doth hedge a king," there 
 is also a divinity that doth hedge a writer who has 
 become a classic and recognized as a king of thought. 
 To understand his majesty, one must approach him 
 where he sits upon the throne of his intellectual pre- 
 
of tin atoar 39 
 
 eminence, and converse not through an interpreter 
 but in the accents which are native to him. "I have 
 heard," says Lowell, speaking of Homer, "the blind 
 old man recite his own rhapsodies." This as an 
 apology for not reading the many, and some excellent 
 translations of Homer in our language. Speaking 
 of the modern English hexameter as compared with 
 the Greek, he says: 
 
 "For as the roar of the sea to the coo of a pigeon is 
 Your modern hexameter to old Melisegenes." 
 
 What was said about Fox s sentences is perhaps truer 
 of Homer s lines, that every one of them "comes rolling 
 like a wave of the Atlantic three thousand miles long." 
 This vast and rolling music of the old bard has not 
 room to display itself, and cannot be heard in any 
 language but the Greek. When Person was asked 
 his opinion of Pope s Homer, he observed, "A very 
 pretty poem, Mr. Pope, but it is not Homer." 
 
40 ;jftcmorial 
 
 TO SOPHIE MAUD 
 (HER GRANDPA S PET AND TORMENT) 
 
 The psyche knot! I should expect 
 
 Pure soul and lofty intellect 
 
 From curled hair all brushed back before 
 
 The temples of a girl which bore 
 
 The stamp of Nature self-respect. 
 
 A broad and beauteous forehead decked 
 
 With grace is like a fair prospect. 
 
 Diana and her nymphs all wore 
 
 The psyche knot. 
 A mind imbued with classic love, 
 My Vassar girl, will not neglect 
 To study still in retrospect 
 The laws of harmony which decore 
 The beauty-loving Greek of yore 
 
 The psyche knot. 
 
 JOHN SAVARY. 
 
 WASHINGTON, D. C., May 5, 1907. 
 
of n afcar 41 
 
 A ROSE 
 
 What makes the beauty of this flower which blows? 
 Not nourishing earth, nor air, nor heaven s blue, 
 Nor sun, nor soil, nor the translucent dew; 
 
 But that which held in combination grows 
 
 Whole in each part, and perfect at the close. 
 Chemist nor botanist no more than you 
 Can see that pure necessity wherethrough 
 
 Beauty is born a rose within the rose. 
 
 Not by divesting her can you lay bare 
 The soul of beauty such as therein shows. 
 Not in the spirit of a poor pick-flaw, 
 
 Nor of the mean and mocking fiends that dare 
 To number every separate leaf that grows 
 A separate fault, if not composed by law. 
 
 DECEMBER 
 
 The month of Capricornus has begun; 
 
 How the blue air of winter keen and bright 
 Sets off the prospect of the pine-clad height, 
 
 The barren, leafless ridge of woodland dun; 
 
 And yonder crow a black mote in the sun 
 Which sparkles with a frosty kindly light; 
 The earth is frozen like an apple quite, 
 
 And ice-bound brooks in sluggish slowness run. 
 
 Girls rosy-cheeked now dream of love and skates; 
 The school is drowsy in the afternoon, 
 The trees stand silent in the after-glow; 
 
 Now run, my boy, and dare your eager mates 
 To tie on wings beneath the winter moon, 
 And beat them flying over ice and snow! 
 
42 lemotial Volume 
 
 RAIN AND ROSES 
 
 Ruby and sapphire, all the orient glows, 
 Which late the ash of roses was in hue; 
 Health to the world, and glory of the dew 
 
 Mingled with fire that in the full-blown rose 
 
 Burns like a censer, while the sweetness grows 
 Of odors after rain, or filtered through 
 Fresh-smelling leaves when morn on earth is new, 
 
 And rain-drops glitter on the green hedge-rows. 
 
 Rare virtues have bruised herbs not vain the blast 
 That shatters e en the fondest hopes that bloom, 
 And fills with heavy tears the brightest eyes. 
 
 For when the bitterness of death is past, 
 
 The soul perceives from black affliction s gloom, 
 An issuing glory that relumes the skies. 
 
 BUYING A PAIR OF OXEN 
 
 Dad took me with him when he went 
 
 To buy the oxen; many a mile 
 
 We rode together, all the while 
 Stopping at barn-yards, as he meant 
 To go no farther; but the event 
 
 Took us on long ways; fear of guile, 
 
 And losing of his little pile 
 Made him on caution mainly bent. 
 At last he found the pair he sought; 
 
 He made his choice and it was best; 
 
 Great, handsome four-year-olds were they. 
 The yoke was from the wagon brought; 
 
 I drove them home, and then I guessed 
 
 What I was wanted for that day. 
 
of ton atoar 43 
 
 MORNING HOURS TO THE MUSE 
 
 Give to the Muse the morning hour! 
 
 The lights of eve 
 Suit best with Beauty s artificial bower, 
 
 Drest to deceive. 
 The world s first splendors the auroral hues - 
 
 The fresh, fair time; 
 Give to the chaste and heavenly-minded Muse, 
 
 Day s golden prime! 
 
 THE TALKING VIOLIN 
 
 Thin as the small gnat s song in summer air, 
 
 Some faint far notes were heard, as half in doubt; 
 Then winding in, the music went about 
 
 Weaving a close and supersubtle snare 
 
 To take the heart of melody laid bare. 
 
 Now wake the strings! new ardors rise about 
 Like little flames that sparkle and go out. 
 
 And love s cold ashes strew thy hearth, despair! 
 
 Some finer frenzy, now, has touched the brain: 
 
 O burning tears! O love! O lamentation! 
 
 Exquisite bliss and more exquisite pain 
 Anguish and agony of supplication: 
 
 O, let that sobbing cease! or let it rain 
 
 Fast-falling drops the balm of consolation. 
 
44 Memorial Volume 
 
 A CORNER IN WHEAT 
 
 Our world depends for daily bread 
 
 Upon the shooting of a seed. 
 Always and everywhere tis said 
 Our world depends for daily bread 
 
 On meeting this great human need. 
 Who corners wheat then corners bread : 
 
 And lo, the crime of human greed! 
 
 Upon the shooting of a seed 
 Our world depends for daily bread. 
 
 On distribution of the seed : 
 
 Who grabs it all to get ahead 
 Is the villain of the basest breed; 
 On distribution of the seed 
 
 The poor depend for being fed. 
 The penny loaf at sorest need 
 
 Snatcht from their mouths with every red 
 Curse of mankind doth curses breed. 
 
 Lawgivers, statesmen, now pay heed! 
 
 The voice of conscience is not dead. 
 Let every man that runs now read. 
 Lawgivers, statesmen, now pay heed! 
 
 Here Law and Old Religion wed. 
 And with the Public Press agreed, 
 Lawgivers, statesmen, now take heed! 
 
 Roll all your thunders on the head 
 Of monstrous and inhuman greed. 
 
of 
 
 DRIVING THE COWS TO PASTURE 
 
 How fresh and fair, the month of June, 
 
 Ere the nightfall come to pass! 
 Through the golden glow of late afternoon 
 
 Lies the valley of green grass ! 
 And the slumbering leaves, in a cloudy mass 
 
 Beneath the first few visible stars, 
 Hang just as they used to hang aboon, 
 
 When I let down the clattering bars, 
 And the cows came home in the gloaming. 
 
 In summer dawns, how deep and cool 
 
 The shadows lay on earth, as higher 
 Through the dark umbrage round the pool 
 
 Rose reddening one great wheel of fire! 
 
 The wandering herd in its desire 
 Followed the leader, strung along 
 
 To pasture; till the boy from school 
 Returning, whistled some old song, 
 And the cows came home in the gloaming. 
 
 What fire of youth and hope then glowed 
 
 In Nature s heart and his, imprisoned! 
 As he drove the cows along the road, 
 
 How the dews on the emerald pasture glistened! 
 
 How the river rolled, and the tall wood listened 
 Where standing up against the blue, 
 
 It made the heaven of man s abode 
 When the angels dwelt with me and you, 
 
 And the cows came home in the gloaming! 
 
46 jftemorial Bolume 
 
 The old brown house below the hill 
 Now molders like the dead, asleep; 
 
 And the sobbing song of the whippoorwill, 
 At twilight perched on the rude well-sweep, 
 Doth scarce disturb the silence deep. 
 
 And the boy is gone who used to loaf 
 At the pasture bars there standing still, 
 
 While he kept calling, "kof! kof! kof!" 
 
 And the cows came home in the gloaming. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT SUN 
 
 Far to the North, where rugged nature sleeping 
 
 Bides in the fabled, old Kimmerian night, 
 There is a land of summer, also, keeping 
 
 For some brief space the burning solar light. 
 
 Land of the Midnight Sun! obscurely bright 
 Where on the edge of frost perpetual creeping, 
 
 The flowers yet bloom, the birds give song and flight: 
 Over the sea-mark there one sees just peeping 
 
 A hull that bars the dull red orb in sight. 
 How like a dead sea soul that spectral sheet, 
 
 Lonely as life-in-death, and notwithstanding, 
 If there be one in all the world whose feet 
 
 Have touched on love and death, that sea offstanding 
 
 His be the solemn thought and voice commanding: 
 Now, at the verge farewell, forever, sweet! 
 
ffioemg of S^&H abarp 47 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 Here are the buried souls of men in books. 
 
 Thicker than leaves in Vallombrosa, sure; 
 
 They lie in covert whiles they may endure 
 To live in alcoves lodged, and crannied nooks. 
 And some are still the same notorious crooks 
 
 Their authors were. But leave the common sewer 
 
 And cesspool always of Bad Literature, 
 And follow up the Parnassian brooks. 
 Like an army a great library looks! 
 
 Long rows of books like infantry in line, 
 But overcrowded in the ranks are rammed; 
 
 Old Immortalities that bravely shine 
 Are jostled oft by parvenus, and jammed; 
 
 Like that tea-party -- Wordsworth was it thine? 
 All sitting silent, and moreover, damned! 
 
 ADORATION 
 
 "J ai responde a votre touche." 
 
 As one might seize a lyre, across it sweeping 
 
 With rash precipitate hand that has no care, 
 Imperiously upon the strained chords heaping 
 
 A mightier melody than these can bear; 
 So Love my heart has taken to his keeping, 
 
 And smitten with great strokes that scorn to spare; 
 Till I am dumb for wonder of my weeping, 
 
 And not a gleam of hope in heaven is there. 
 
 O sweet and cold, but not more cold than sweet, 
 As death itself is to one weary wending; 
 
48 Memorial 
 
 The journey s end rewards the resting feet, 
 
 The stormiest day may have a peaceful ending. 
 
 Hail and farewell! the sun of life descending, 
 With his last smile to triumph turns defeat. 
 
 THE NOTE OF AUTUMN 
 
 Walking towards sundown, I perceived a cold 
 Air-belt that stretched o er tropic ways of light, 
 
 Tells me that summer is already old, 
 As day is verging to the fall of night. 
 
 As wandering slowly on I still vade, 
 
 That lurking, strange, premonitory chill, 
 
 Which in the sunshine feels the ghostly shade 
 The spirit of Autumn walks here at will 
 
 Ah, yes, I hear distinctively her note, 
 
 No other like it on the round, green earth; 
 
 My heart long since hath got the song by rote, 
 The August cricket s sitting on the hearth! 
 
 CALAMITY 
 
 I, in my chamber at the dead of night, 
 
 Waylaid by something was, approaching near; 
 I lay quite still in drench of mortal fear, 
 
 Or, if I half rose, shivering with affright, 
 
 Nothing was there to cross or blast my sight. 
 Anon I heard a dismal wind and drear 
 Sigh from the forest by a lonesome mere, 
 
 And on the strand the water-dragons fight. 
 
of ^I)n afcar 49 
 
 They, on the slope, like rasping seas that tore, 
 Drag their raised wings and sinking feet of lead; 
 
 They shake my building on the sandy shore, 
 And surge against me lying drowned and dead: 
 
 Then swoop the dragons with a falling roar, 
 And pile the world of waters overhead. 
 
 THE "OLD FARMER S ALMANAC" 
 
 This calendar of days of date far back, 
 
 Dingy and dog-eared, is to me worth more 
 Than many novels, as a living store 
 
 And treasure-house of dreams which do not lack 
 
 Life and poetry, and of home-truths, a smack. 
 I learn from this what Hesiod taught before 
 At the deep springs of astronomic lore. 
 
 I see the kitchen, and the fire-place black 
 
 With cranes and pot-hooks, and the corner where 
 I sat befriended by the homely muse 
 
 When storms were howling in the wintry air, 
 And all the talk was weather and the news. 
 
 The soul was happy then and free from care, 
 And modern culture had not brought the blues. 
 
 OUR LADY OF SORROW 
 
 (On seeing St. Gauden s figure of Grief in Rock Creek 
 Cemetery.) 
 
 Methinks I see that cunning hand which wrought 
 More than the marble man of many woes, 
 The woman s crown of martyrdom, the rose 
 
 Of her dead youth and love, the shading thought 
 
50 temotial Volume 
 
 Of upraised hand, and lo, the mantle caught 
 Under the chin, in Sorrow s clutch that shows 
 In flowing lines inflexible as those 
 
 In bronze of Grief, which at the barrier fought 
 
 And overcame this hooded figure s fraught 
 Of constancy that shows itself again 
 In every fold and wrinkle of the dress; 
 
 How Faith looks out with a superb disdain 
 
 Of desolation and of emptiness, 
 
 At conquered passion, and a broken chain. 
 
 RONDEAU 
 
 In autumn days the world in height 
 And depth is beautiful to sight. 
 The falling leaf is everywhere, 
 The rainbowed woods are drest in rare 
 Colors of the golden light. 
 
 November days, how brief, how bright! 
 Then falls the clear and frosty night; 
 The morning shines to all how fair 
 In autumn days. 
 
 Fit season for the nuptial rite! 
 
 Spirits are gay, the church is dight 
 With flowers, and fragrance in the air: 
 Be happy, now, O married pair! 
 
 Be blind in love to beauty s blight 
 In autumn days. 
 
of n afcar 51 
 
 LATE AUTUMN 
 
 The colors of the Autumn world 
 
 Are fading to the view; 
 And softly touched by shining haze, 
 
 The landscape glimmers through. 
 The purple ranges of the hills 
 
 Melt in the sapphire skies; 
 And beautiful as heaven below 
 
 The turquoise water lies. 
 
 Nor cold nor warm, but sunny bright, 
 
 The perfect autumn weather; 
 Such days as you and I have spent 
 
 On Berkshire hills together! 
 Who ever saw on this dull earth 
 
 A painting equal that 
 Which on the easel of the hills 
 
 For Autumn s picture sat! 
 
 The conflagrated wood was set 
 
 In flying colors fast; 
 A thousand rainbows to the eye 
 
 Had made no such repast. 
 The bright sun set his funeral torch 
 
 To myriad burning pyres 
 In red-leaved oak, or crimson ash, 
 
 Or scarlet maple fires. 
 
 Like lamps along the village street 
 
 Or torches kindled there, 
 The splendid maples all a-row 
 
 Made bonfires in the air. 
 
52 temorial Bolume 
 
 The sunset on the western hills 
 
 Lay like a dying brand; 
 I looked, and from the mountain height 
 
 What pathos in the land! 
 
 I ve seen, how many autumns since, 
 
 The season s changes grow: 
 Have felt in cities, on brick walls 
 
 How strange that afterglow! 
 O, nevermore can I forget 
 
 The sunset s dying brand, 
 When looking from the mountain height, 
 
 What pathos in the land! 
 
 TENNYSON 
 
 When Byron died, the bard of Haslemere 
 In boyish grief and wonder did deplore 
 The passing splendor to that silent shore 
 
 Which now receives him in the season sere. 
 
 His emigration to another sphere 
 
 May teach us all what he had learned before, 
 Though Byron was, and Tennyson is no more! 
 
 Yet Poesy lives forever with .us here. 
 
 She gives the meed of her "melodious tear" 
 To parting genius, but reserves a sheath 
 For new aspirants to immortal song. 
 
 Nor can you tell of all that live beneath 
 
 The Sun to-day, who yet shall wear the wreath - 
 To whom the garland and the robes belong. 
 
of tofn atoar 53 
 
 THE PERFECT KNIGHT 
 
 "He was a very parfait, gentle knight," 
 Valor and courtesy, a blended light 
 
 Like the twin stars of Leda burning clear 
 
 Shed grace and glory on his wild career. 
 Ardent in love and foremost in the fight, 
 He bore the token of his lady bright; 
 
 The chief devoir of gallant cavalier, 
 
 To kiss a dame and also break a spear, 
 The proof and prize of courage in a knight. 
 This was the picture and the fair ideal, 
 
 The mark of manhood once; that bravest he 
 The best in love and war became the real 
 
 Prince of the flower of noble chivalry. 
 King of his word, and stainless, pure in soul, 
 And true to love, as needle to the pole. 
 
 JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 
 In scales of judgment held aloft to weigh 
 The spiritual quality in men and things 
 Manhood is more than crowns of sceptred kings. 
 But thou wast moulded of fresh western clay 
 And filled with fiery life of our new day, 
 
 And made to skim the world on ostrich-wings 
 Of fear and wonder reckless of the slings 
 Of an outrageous Press, which, bound to stay 
 Thy race with fame, was beaten out of sight! 
 Others but ended just where they began 
 As gilt weather cocks, facile to a man. 
 But being challenged, thou, in thickest fight, 
 Grasping thy country s standard, wrong or right, 
 Was first, last and always an American. 
 
54 emorial Bolume 
 
 THE END OF HAYING 
 
 Jerusalem! the sun is hot. 
 
 It bakes a man like a pipkin, say, 
 Like swarthy Dan in the mowing lot, 
 
 Who sweats like a pitcher born of clay! 
 How red one looks! if men are not 
 
 All reddish-brown as the earth to-day, 
 No fault of the sun s assaying: 
 
 Hand up the pitchfork and the rake; 
 
 Now the little brown jug" by the handle take, 
 
 (It is only sweetened water, Jake) 
 
 And "a health all round!" so then, we make 
 An end of haying. 
 
 Gee up, there! Bright and Broad as one 
 
 Together start the creaking wain; 
 The boy on top, the sinking sun 
 
 Glows, and o erlooking all the plain, 
 As Caesar proud of the red field won, 
 
 He glories in the garnered grain, 
 And holidays for playing. 
 
 The shadows creep o er field and stream, 
 
 The far-off woods in sunset gleam; 
 
 As the old squire jogs beside the team, 
 
 He falls in a sort of wayside dream - 
 At end of haying. 
 
 Here come the girls! they will catch on, 
 So, pull them up, and stow them quick; 
 
 They, too, enjoy the shaven lawn 
 By cornfield and the corn in silk. 
 
of ^In afcar 55 
 
 Better than both, their eyes like dawn, 
 Black eyebrows and white arms like milk, 
 
 Their beauty oft betraying! 
 
 The great barn doors are now let slide: 
 Over the ridge we go, and glide 
 Under the tall beams high and wide, 
 We girls and boys together ride - 
 At the end of haying. 
 
 The supper horn! and who but knows 
 There s doughnuts in the pan a-frying? 
 
 As home, at length, the last load goes, 
 The busy housewife, mother trying 
 
 To do her duty, one eye shows 
 To Blue Eyes in the cradle lying! 
 But food and rest there s no denying 
 
 To hungry men-folk tired, in-straying; 
 The doughnuts are devoured with noise, 
 Butter and cheese, and whitebread choice; 
 But "cowcumbers" he most enjoys, 
 The white-sleeved farmer with his boys, 
 At the end of haying! 
 
 CHIAROSCURO 
 
 Around all souls there is an ether fraught 
 
 With light in darkness, full of thoughts unborn; 
 
 Fools only treat it with a shallow scorn: 
 The clear obscure of transcendental thought, 
 Like deep-browed Night with starry veil upcaught, 
 
 Shows more and greater objects than the morn 
 
 Of understanding in a world forlorn 
 Of all things save the knowledge which is nought. 
 
56 ffitemotial 
 
 Things seen and known familiarly we hate. 
 
 Our heads want heaven never too high the vault; 
 
 Bare feet perceive the virtues of the globe. 
 I feel a thousand things I cannot state. 
 
 What then? Is their obscurity my fault? 
 
 Read Homer, Shakespeare, and the book of Job! 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER 
 
 When the harvesting is ended, 
 Ere the festival Thanksgiving, 
 On the edge of gruesome winter 
 Comes a spell of pleasant weather 
 Indian Summer! 
 
 Hangs a haze above the landscape, 
 Spreads a dimness o er the vision, 
 And the lazy earth in sunshine, 
 Like a jewel softly shimmering, 
 Gives contentment. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF JOHN HOWARD PAYNE 
 
 Borne to his rest with dirges that retreating 
 Blend in the distance the refrain of years, 
 
 While answering bands, the solemn air repeating, 
 Draw heaven itself to shed some gentle tears! 
 
 Though all too late and vain is this returning 
 To let him wear the laurel on his brow, 
 
 And feel the heart of a great people yearning 
 
 To him who "sleeps in dull, cold marble" now 
 
of Stofjn Jbafcarp 57 
 
 See! the fleet Iris from the heavens bringing 
 
 Light to the world through dark skies bending o er 
 us! 
 
 Hark! the clear carol of the brown thrush ringing 
 Down woodland aisles his hallelujah chorus! 
 
 The passing breath of foolish praise or pity 
 Nature forgets, and well may disregard; 
 
 But to the silence of her sacred city 
 
 Receives the bust and ashes of her bard. 
 
 Perchance the future poet of his people, 
 
 Haunting this grove, as he loved here to stray, 
 
 Musing this pile in sight of dome and steeple, 
 Shall pause beside his resting-place to say: 
 
 "What fatal bar, what spirit of resistance, 
 So held the captive, and detained him long? 
 
 Now let his human life with our existence 
 Blended forever be, by power of song! 
 
 Here rest, O restless and far-wandered mortal, 
 Laid in thy native earth, no more to roam! 
 
 Dost hear, glad spirit at the heavenly portal, 
 
 A world-wide people singing Home, Sweet Home ?" 
 
 Oak Hill, June 9, 1883. 
 
 PEEPING FROGS 
 
 Now come the minstrels of the swamp and pool, 
 The peeping frogs who make the marshes ring 
 At sundown like some myriad-squeaking thing! 
 
 Thus with our senses Nature plays the fool, 
 
58 ^lemorial Volume 
 
 And has these blubberings of her infant school 
 
 Low forms that make more noise when they try to 
 sing, 
 
 Kept like the rune-stocks of the ancient spring 
 In notched green flags among the waters cool. 
 I know the blood-root and the crocus nigh, 
 
 New leaves and grass and winter going off 
 Soon as the earth sends up that herald cry; 
 It makes me dream of summer bye-and-bye, 
 
 Of shade, and cattle at the drinking trough, 
 And sunburnt reapers in a field of rye. 
 
 IN THE FORTIES; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THAT OLD WHITE HAT 
 
 When Greeley wore his old white hat, 
 The party badge and all of that, 
 When Webster wore the buff and blue, 
 And Whigs throughout the land were true 
 As their tried leader s trenchant blade 
 To principles which none would trade 
 For locofocos foolish plunder, 
 The country s brains were carried under 
 That old white hat. 
 
 Came Adamses and Quincys soon, 
 
 Then Choate, and Winthrop, and Calhoun; 
 
 Came Harry Clay, his clarion voice, 
 
 And Ewing led the Bucktail boys. 
 
 The old Post-rider on the fly, 
 
 Flung the "Palladium" or the Spy." 
 
of S^ftn Jbatoarp 59 
 
 The land with oratory rung, 
 And poets, also, were who sung 
 That old white hat. 
 
 They talked of Annexation then, 
 When "Hell and Texas" daunted men. 
 But none evoked from dread abysm 
 The spectre of Imperialism! 
 No Julius Caesar yet had won 
 To the brink, then, of our Rubicon: 
 Nor war and want with Standard Oil 
 Politics combined to spoil 
 
 That old white hat. 
 
 I recollect that far halloo 
 "For Tippecanoe and Tyler, too!" 
 Just how Maine went for Governor Kent, 
 And such a landslide! what it meant; 
 How the whole country, bold and free, 
 For six weeks went upon a spree! 
 How father stormed, and almost swore 
 At neighbor Craig, for "Billy" wore 
 That old white hat. 
 
 The old Whig Party was combined 
 Of "all the talents" once that shined; 
 Wealth, culture, learning in the land, 
 Joined wit and worth to make it grand. 
 Twas fit to govern, and its creed 
 Was Ich dien the country s need. 
 It held the world s respect in fee, 
 It had respectability, 
 
 That old white hat. 
 
60 Jftemorial Volume 
 
 Our haughty Anglo-Saxon race 
 Then lorded it with power and grace 
 In lofty strain, the source to be 
 Of eloquence and poesy; 
 Till men forgot it could install 
 The slave pen at the Capitol: 
 And demagogues then had their will, 
 While good men raised in worship still 
 That old white hat. 
 
 IN A STREET CAR 
 
 " Where do you find the matter for a sonnet?" 
 
 Why, any girl can give you, for that matter, 
 
 Enough to write about have you a smatter 
 Of learning, and the knack, I ll say, to con it. 
 The charming creatures look at that one s bonnet 
 
 Can turn your head, and all your wits can scatter; 
 
 But keep your thoughts, and let your ink bespatter 
 Freely the page when you are writing on it. 
 
 Certain it is, a pleasing shape and air 
 Are most engaging when you wish to write; 
 
 Form to yourself an image of the fair, 
 And think how happy you could be to-night, 
 
 In all your pondering, while sitting there, 
 If she were only sitting opposite! 
 
of oftt J>afcar 61 
 
 THE WIRES AT MIDNIGHT 
 
 The wires a-humming overhead with might 
 Of man s intelligence give him the right 
 
 And power to be the Dionysian ear, 
 
 Which gathers all those strands of hope and fear, 
 And brings the secrets of the earth to light! 
 
 The world s great business must go on, in spite 
 Of all things coming else to interfere 
 With necessary working brains go not too near 
 The wires a-humming. 
 
 The morning paper, doubtless, will appear, 
 And I shall read what famous wits indite 
 In all the capitals of the world to-night. 
 Wondrous invention! This alone makes clear 
 A thousand things obscure and far-off hear 
 The wires a-humming. 
 
 THE PULLMAN TRAIN 
 
 The Pullman train, which our inventive race 
 Designed, for steam, to conquer time and space, 
 
 Transports you now in a first-class hotel. 
 
 Think how refreshing and delectable 
 The flying landscape looks from such a place! 
 It is a thing of beauty and of grace, 
 
 The slave who had Aladdin s lamp to sell 
 
 Could never beat this modern miracle, 
 The Pullman train. 
 
62 lemorial Bolume 
 
 Science alone has wrought the mighty spell. 
 Thousands must travel; and tis very plain 
 That all on earth who have far ends to gain 
 And love the luxury of traveling well 
 For them and others nothing can excel 
 The Pullman train. 
 
 RONDEL 
 
 A little serves the creature s daily need. 
 Out of a window watch the sparrows feed 
 On bread-crumbs thrown, or maple buds preferred- 
 Each vagabond a blithe and careless bird. 
 No invalid is he, with shattered nerves; 
 A little serves. 
 
 His wants are few who has no vain desires; 
 In winter, coals and candles one requires, 
 But no Lucullus feasts nor costly wines; 
 Plain food s enough for him who sparely dines. 
 From nature s frugal way he never swerves; 
 A little serves. 
 
 QUARTRAINS 
 
 A sculptured deed without a name, 
 A head with lasting sorrow crowned; 
 
 Death s orbed shield of deathless fame 
 God s infinite peace is poured around. 
 
of Pofn atoar 63 
 
 LYRIC SONG 
 
 The prisoned fire within the diamond stone 
 Is the wrought secret of the ages long; 
 
 Art steals in words a passing grief or moan, 
 The deathless dew-drop of a lyric song. 
 
 As a light wind the breath of song floats by, 
 But, as congealed upon the printed page, 
 
 These airy nothings to the world s end fly 
 Beyond the glory of the saint or sage. 
 
 SMOKE WREATHS 
 
 The farmer builds his fire at break of day, 
 And standing on the stone step by the door, 
 The morning sun upon his face and floor, 
 
 Beholds his chimney-smoke when far away 
 
 A cloud of tissue shot with gold and gray. 
 He sees the transformation but no more 
 The secret cause of wonders to explore 
 
 Will give a thought to Nature s miracle-play. 
 
 The poet sees by aid of that clear flame 
 
 Which rises from the hearthstone of his heart 
 A morning cloud, a wreath of vapor broke; 
 
 It flies abroad, and then men call it fame. 
 His business here is poetry and art, 
 Not watching vulgar chimney-pots that smoke. 
 
64 lemoriai Volume 
 
 SCIENCE AND SUPERSTITION 
 
 High tides and winds, that signal coming storm 
 To dwellers by the strand or lonely wood, 
 Harp to the world of all vicissitude. 
 
 Oh, sad and strange men s altered state and form 
 
 By death and sorrow, and all ills that swarm 
 On houseless heads in tempest; flesh and blood 
 In some old chronicle of field and flood 
 
 Lived long ago and live in types yet warm. 
 
 On such a night, of old, the Wandering Jew 
 
 Was much abroad, and corpse-lights, flickering fire, 
 
 In fen and moorland seen, made goblins feared. 
 
 But when the late storm-wind around us blew, 
 
 Through rain and rack, on mast, dome, rocking spire, 
 
 Electric lights like midnight suns appeared. 
 
 CHRYSANTHEMUM 
 
 Tears on my hand ! Dost thou remember, Dear, 
 The parting sad of that November day? 
 Twas on a hill-top that o erlooked the bay, 
 
 And we were quite alone but standing near. 
 
 Thou from a grassy mound the flower of cheer 
 Pluckt, and with ribbon on my shoulder gay 
 Pinned in a love-knot, didst thou truly say, 
 
 4 Wear this for me in battle without fear!" 
 
 Long days went by and through the horrid sights 
 
 Of war, in army hospital and tent, 
 
 I saw thee move among the wounded knights. 
 
 Thy form at last o er my pale form was bent; 
 The tears were falling where I saw thee stand, 
 The white chrysanthemum in thy open hand! 
 
of tolm <afcar 65 
 
 SUBMERGED 
 
 Here, on this mountain-top, this bald and hoar 
 
 Summit of ages, let me look around 
 
 Over the flooded but familiar ground 
 Where the great "Ox-bow" made his curves before. 
 A tumbling sea of billows to the shore 
 
 Removed and distant as the dim and drowned 
 
 Vale of my fathers filled with fluctuant sound - 
 Is that the River that I knew of yore? 
 Something that tells me I shall never reach 
 
 The threshold of my home, from which a boat 
 
 Is putting off, deprives me of all speech. 
 My life, like yonder skiff, seems all afloat: 
 What voices, yet receding and remote, 
 
 What hands, what torches, passed along the beach? 
 
 THE OCEAN OF LIFE 
 
 The weather is thick, and the rote of the sea 
 Is loud; it moaneth exceedingly. 
 I walk on the margin, and list as I walk 
 The waves everlasting babble and talk; 
 And I try with all my soul to reach 
 The sense of their dim, inarticulate speech. 
 What would they say, the curling and fleet 
 Waves in their coming to cream at my feet? 
 The rolling billows that foam and fret, 
 Do they utter the note of a wild regret? 
 And farther off in the deep sea-knell 
 Hoarsen to something like "farewell!" 
 
66 emorial Bolume 
 
 Ah, who can tell me what they say 
 Forever and ever, night and day 
 Coming and going on shingly beach, 
 But never, so far as I know, reach 
 To human, clear and articulate speech. 
 And have they a voice for the general ear, 
 Tis not a message I care to hear; 
 But what do they say to you and me, 
 The waves of this deep, mysterious sea? 
 Forever they roll to the eye and ear 
 Their awful burthen of doubt and fear, 
 But with it they mix the sense sublime, 
 The voice of eternity heard in time. 
 As inlander, when he to embark 
 On board ship bound for some sea-mark, 
 The hardly moving vessel stays 
 By mere inertia s sluggish ways 
 In harbor long, and seems to creep 
 With languid airs to the open deep, 
 And then with sails more taut and trim 
 With a good stiff breeze appears to swim, 
 Till all of a sudden, going well 
 Uplifted on the great ground-swell, 
 "This is the ocean," says to himsel - 
 So, looking forward o er the brine, 
 As far as to the horizon line, 
 And thinking only a plank can be 
 Betwixt him and eternity, 
 Comes over him like chill airs blown, 
 A sense of dread the Great Unknown. 
 The tragedies that make men weep 
 Come not by perils of the deep: 
 The peril lies to the innocent in 
 The world, its whirlpits of deep sin. 
 
of Wn atoar 67 
 
 Look at the daily papers; these 
 Long lists of crimes and casualties. 
 Great cities like great maelstroms draw 
 Beyond the pale of human law: 
 What mad hosts there rush to ruin 
 In vaster whirlpools of deep sin! 
 And who can picture man s despair, 
 The sea of upturned faces there 
 Drawn to disaster and mischance 
 By downward suck of circumstance! 
 Some swallowed up in the morass 
 Of sensual appetites, alas; 
 Some by hereditary sin 
 Of others pushed and plunging in; 
 So of all men who to the verge 
 Of life approaching, see the urge 
 Of the incessant sobbing sea 
 Whose billows roll remorselessly. 
 In face of the vague and vast unknown, 
 Who does not dread to go alone? 
 What is behind, Experience shows, 
 But what s before him, no man knows. 
 He only knows he can t desist 
 From marching on to meet the mist 
 Enshrouding all life s hopes and fears, 
 In which, of a sudden, he disappears. 
 As Mirza saw from a lofty ridge 
 Only the end of a broken bridge 
 Whereon (the toward-end of the world 
 In rolling clouds and mist upcurled), 
 A pilgrim train, the walkers on 
 This bridge, like all the rest foregone 
 By many pitfalls which are laid 
 For feet unwary, I m afraid 
 
68 jftemorial Volume 
 
 Like other men when they abscond 
 
 To the abysmal dark beyond 
 
 Who goes will stumble, fall and miss 
 
 His foothold over the vast abyss 
 
 And where are you, then, when it surged, 
 
 If not among the great submerged? 
 
 Of ships that in the offing wait 
 
 To take on passengers and freight, 
 
 The ancients thought old Charon s barge 
 
 The best to carry and discharge; 
 
 But let me not, I pray the Lord, 
 
 Once mention here the name abhorred 
 
 Of Styx or Acheron, where it rolls 
 
 Its ghostly burden of dead souls: 
 
 But let me for your sake rehearse 
 
 A bit of Christian poet s verse. 
 
 (That man of orange-tawney hue, 
 
 Known by the gossips telling you 
 
 In Florence once how he did fare 
 
 To the Land of Death, and lo, there! 
 
 For proof the singed beard and hair.) 
 
 Remember, he s among the shades 
 
 Yonder, in those infernal glades. 
 
 "Thus we, with wandering steps and slow 
 
 Passed on, as going against the grain 
 
 Of spirits mixed with drizzling rain, 
 
 Amid the palpable obscure 
 
 Of shadows in that dismal drain 
 
 Of darkness and of souls in pain, 
 
 And there, amid a world of strife, 
 
 We touched upon the Future Life." 
 
 No, not that river of ill fame 
 
 Debarred of heavenly light to shame 
 
of tot J>abar 69 
 
 The sevenfold circling wave that ran 
 
 Around that lowest world of man 
 
 I say, not death, nor the deep sea, 
 
 But life is the awful mystery. 
 
 Though science dissect with keenest knife, 
 
 It has not laid bare the hidden life. 
 
 Thousands have searched, and others will 
 
 Remains the secret, secret still. 
 
 And though Life this or that way tends, 
 
 Who knows where it begins or ends? 
 
 No matter how much we know, a baby 
 
 As much as we knows what it may be. 
 
 And when we put off to the spirit shore, 
 
 As no man knows what is before, 
 
 We leave to flutter on wave and wind 
 
 Never a rag of sail behind. 
 
 Strange! that no word from the other side, 
 
 Of all the men who ever died, 
 
 Has come to us on earth to tell 
 
 What at the moment them befell, 
 
 Who slipt their moorings on this side. 
 
 Instead of which we have "last words," 
 
 Omens and oracles, beasts and birds 
 
 (Who talked in the ancient pagan world), 
 
 Portents and prodigies when, hurled 
 
 From his high seat, a Caesar dies. 
 
 To Nature, then, what signifies 
 
 Assassination, murder, hosts 
 
 Of apparitions, and of ghosts? 
 
 Naturally, some men are thunder- 
 
 Struck by tales of wind, and wonder, 
 
 Exclaiming to their friendly hosts: 
 
 "What! Then, you don t believe in ghosts?" 
 
TO emorial Botume 
 
 "I ve seen too many such, my friend," 
 
 Replies the skeptic, and "I ll send 
 
 To you for each authentic ghost, 
 
 Two thousand pages, parcels post, 
 
 Of proof to the contrary; this I ll do 
 
 (If you will pay for t in the end). 
 
 Forward your contribution to 
 
 Society for Psychical Research." 
 
 But what your ghost-seer sees, forbye, 
 
 Sir William says, "it s all in your eye," 
 
 And (will you now come down from your perch?) 
 
 Both Crookes and Ramsay say they will 
 
 Produce a better than those ill 
 
 Materializations when keep mum 
 
 A "mug" appears, and always some 
 
 Determined skeptic mutters "hum." 
 
 But yet the theosophs may say, 
 
 The time will come, if not to-day, 
 
 When there will be a parcels post 
 
 Bureau of inter-mundane ghost 
 
 Seers, who will receive, tis said, 
 
 Communications from the dead 
 
 By spiritual telegraph, and some 
 
 Declare it has already come 
 
 (The news yet confirmation lacks). 
 
 I question who draw living breath, 
 
 As we that go from life to death 
 
 The death that ends us is that all? 
 
 You think so? Well, your thinking is 
 
 The end of you at least, iwis 
 
 It may be so, but I, God wot, 
 
 Say if the future life is not 
 
 Important, nothing on earth is; 
 
ffioemg of gfrftn afratp 71 
 
 Stick a pin there! and I say this, 
 
 Nor Heaven, nor Hell, nor bale, nor bliss 
 
 Concern us more, but mainly how 
 
 To hold the everlasting Now. 
 
 Calcanda via leti, all 
 
 Who dwell on this terrestrial ball 
 
 (As Horace tersely put it when 
 
 He marked the common bourne of men), 
 
 The lot is drawn, and it shall fall 
 
 One day on earth to each and all 
 
 The creatures who draw living breath 
 
 In brief, said he, the way of death - 
 
 It must be trodden once for all. 
 
 We hold on earth a life estate, 
 
 Tenants in common; death and fate 
 
 Serve notice, and we can t retrieve, 
 
 Quit and abandon, and take leave 
 
 Of house and land, of wife and child, 
 
 And friend, also, the last who smiled 
 
 On you; as cloud in heaven doth fade, 
 
 We are but dust and empty shade. 
 
 A country most obscure and flat 
 
 With filthy drains, lakes, bogs, and mat 
 
 Of reeds and rushes no, not that, 
 
 But just its modern antonym, 
 
 The river Jordan, "holy rim," 
 
 Or at the ferry, waiting bark 
 
 For coming souls there to embark - 
 
 "Carnage, sir, for New Jerusalem?" 
 
 But not there yet, look out! the bridge, 
 
 We are on it now, my loyal liege 
 
 And friend beside me, nothing new 
 
 In such companionship the view - 
 
72 jflcmoriat Bolumc 
 
 How strange! how singular is this! 
 
 Where am I? Ho, there! did you miss 
 
 The last one over the great abyss ? 
 
 He disappeared as at a bound, 
 
 Without a word, without a sound! 
 
 A moment since how blank the spot 
 
 For where death is, the man is not! 
 
 And does it merely stop the breath 
 
 Or can you tell me what is death? 
 
 Whether we think or say so here, 
 
 Tis dying, and not death men fear. 
 
 And possibly, as some one said, 
 
 "As life to the living, so death to the dead. 1 
 
 I rather like what Thoreau said 
 
 To Parker Pillsbury, "Let them chime 
 
 The bells, not toll one world at a time!" 
 
 And yet not so, be thou, my soul 
 
 Persuaded still of some far goal 
 
 Toward which forever it shall wend 
 
 In hopes to find itself and friend, 
 
 And what did Schelling say? "Because 
 
 From all eternity I was 
 
 The very being that I am," 
 
 And if not here with Uncle Sam, 
 
 I shall be somewhere in the game, 
 
 Another man, and yet the same. 
 
 So then, no pagan, I shall say, 
 
 Adsum, at the general muster; aye, 
 
 Comrade, sure, the lot will fall, 
 
 And so, as Hamlet said withal, 
 
 "The readiness," indeed, "is all." 
 
 If you are ready, all is well, 
 
 Take pilgrim staff and scallop shell, 
 
ffioemg of Sfrfrn abarg 73 
 
 Gird up your loins, like lion bold 
 Look round once more upon the old 
 Familiar faces good-bye, friend, 
 And blessings on your journey s end." 
 What more, then, can one do but wend ? 
 Sometimes he can only stand and wait 
 The certain coming of death and fate; 
 And that is the test of manhood when 
 In ways superior to common men, 
 One waits and calmly draws his breath, 
 When face to face with imminent death: 
 For death is nothing, and what s the sea 
 But a drop in God s immensity? 
 
 MY NEIGHBOR 
 
 Much loving quiet and much hating noise, 
 
 Pursuing knowledge as the Golden Fleece, 
 
 I have a new disturber of the peace. 
 You cannot guess ? None of those horrid boys 
 Who should be hooped up, and, till surfeit cloys, 
 
 Fed through the bunghole when they cry and tease: 
 
 But my new neighbor, now, is none of these 
 A real torment and the first of joys. 
 
 And is it such a plague? Well, I should smile! 
 
 She s laughing, singing, crowing all the while 
 Till slumber comes and takes the Golden Curl 
 
 And has her laid in the sweet death of sleep. 
 
 And I, oft plunged in midnight musing deep, 
 Bless God for her my neighbor s little girl. 
 
74 Memorial Volume 
 
 THE WHEEL OF THE LAW 
 A BUDDHIST IMAGE 
 
 In that vast realm of human woe or weal. 
 Which man inherits and in part controls 
 I heard a voice that thundered to the poles, 
 
 And shook the world with following peal on peal. 
 
 It was the Law whose million-spoked wheel 
 Still on forever and forever rolls, 
 Bearing the lots of myriad-minded souls 
 
 Whereon the destinies have set their seal. 
 
 Our actions are the spokes which, white or black, 
 Make up the wheel revolving with events; 
 And call it law, or fate, or Providence, 
 
 Bound are we to the wheel, which, turning back, 
 Bears up the good to glory and delight, 
 And whirls the wicked down to dwell in night. 
 
 SUNDOWN OF THE YEAR 
 
 The season of fine sunsets! They relume 
 The dying lamps of beauty still to cheer 
 The said waste places of the earth whose year 
 
 Grows darker to the close. They brighter bloom 
 
 Along the gray skirts of the world in gloom 
 Like solitary joys. They hint the clear 
 Shining of some immeasurable mere 
 
 In that pale, edging sky round earth a tomb. 
 
 I love to walk alone and lonely muse 
 
 In the strange light of the straw-colored eves. 
 The skies are clear, but one long crimson bar 
 
 Fed from the heart of sunset will not fuse 
 Its proper glory with the sky that weaves 
 Its blue tent yonder for the Evening Star. 
 
of ton afcar 75 
 
 TO A MOUSE NIBBLING 
 
 Thou cunningest little creature! Timid, too, 
 So fearful that I may not move nor stir 
 Lest I disturb thee at thy small feast, sir! 
 
 Leave me alone the timid Muse to woo. 
 
 She is more dainty delicate than who 
 
 Scarce ventures forth, and if a cat should purr, 
 Would whisk him out of sight, wayfarer, 
 
 For whom a crumb, or drop of paste will do. 
 
 O, Mousie, not alone thou nibblest here 
 
 In this great library! Many a book-worm so 
 Gnaws at the book for whom a page sufficeth. 
 
 And I, thy human and more bold compeer, 
 Of the vast book-world may as little know 
 As thou of markets wherefore who despiseth? 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF GENIUS 
 
 Of all the mournfulest things on this our earth, 
 
 The tragedy of genius is most sad. 
 
 I look on them as lunatic angels, mad 
 By the mere circumstance of human birth! 
 So out of place, so out of time! Their worth 
 
 Wholly misrated, and their best deemed bad. 
 
 Time s football here, till time or fashion s fad 
 Of one man s misery makes a million s mirth. 
 Shelley and Keats! Had British thorn the right, 
 
 That pair of English nightingales to fray? 
 Burns, Collins, Chatterton and Poe what blight! 
 
 Milton was poor, and Dante was not gay. 
 The Muses led blind Homer to the light, 
 
 And Virgil was a conjurer, they say. 
 
76 memorial Volume 
 
 ^SCHYLUS 
 
 Titanic still among the Titans, he 
 The superhuman over poets rose, 
 Rugged as Caucasus with eternal snows; 
 
 Grandeur of suffering in his lines we see 
 
 The Free-will poet of Necessity ! 
 
 He paints with strength the vast Promethean woes, 
 The Heart of Freedom where the vulture grows 
 
 Of kingly power, and mobs worse tyranny. 
 Genius and valor of the Grecians old 
 
 Conquered for freedom at Thermopylae. 
 
 And that same genius in the Bard appears 
 With equal courage on occasion bold. 
 
 Tyrants of earth ! To you and your compeers, 
 
 His words a sheaf of thunderbolts let be! 
 
 MAGDALEN 
 
 The winds of Autumn whisper back soft sighing 
 
 To the low breathing of the Magdalen; 
 She on her couch of withered leaves is lying 
 
 Dreams she of days that come not back again? 
 No, past and present both within her dying, 
 
 Her earnest eyes upon the page remain: 
 While the long, golden hair, behind her flying, 
 
 No more is bound with ornament or chain. 
 The storm may gather, but she doth not heed; 
 
 Nature s wild music enters not her ears; 
 Her soul, that for her Saviour s woes doth bleed, 
 
 One only voice, for ever sounding, hears : 
 1 Follow His footsteps who thy sins hath borne 
 And who for thee the thorny crown hath worn." 
 
of toN atoar 77 
 
 AN ITALIAN SONNET 
 
 Up where the Northern Appenines put on 
 Their summer royal robes of singing green 
 Vast chestnut woods, which hang a living screen 
 
 Betwixt the glare of marble summits yon 
 
 And the green hollows where brooks babble on 
 The flowery slopes of bitter amarene, 
 Bloom the wild cherry fruits that gathered been 
 
 By young girls on the eve of good St. John. 
 
 Catrina, sitting in the vine-clad porch 
 
 Of her thatched cottage by the river-walk, 
 Listens to gossips of the village talk 
 
 About to-morrow s wedding at the church. 
 For she is married then, and shows with pride 
 To her girl friends the dowry of a bride. 
 
 THE SUNSET 
 
 I saw the angel of sunset stand 
 One wing on sea and one on land. 
 
 One edge of earth was orange-bright, 
 And one was grey with steel-blue light. 
 
 Dust of stubble and plowed lands dun 
 Rose reddening in the setting sun. 
 
 The cattle, wandering slow and whist, 
 Seemed black spots in a burning mist. 
 
 The ragged edges of the wood 
 Were bathed as in a crimson flood. 
 
78 emorial Bolume 
 
 Where barn or building west extends, 
 It set on fire the gable ends. 
 
 Upon the eastern mountains cold 
 Glistered the brooks like threads of gold. 
 
 But opposite that glory burned 
 Which even use to beauty turned. 
 
 As seemed all hues in heaven-had birth 
 Were falling down at once on earth. 
 
 And on the distant hill-top s crown 
 Was New Jerusalem let down. 
 
 That crown of glory seemed to swim 
 A mirage light that haloed him. 
 
 On his wet cheek fresh color glowed 
 As toward the sunset hills he strode. 
 
 Great thoughts were his, and songs of peace 
 Hummed in his breast like swarming bees. 
 
 He reasoned not he was a boy 
 But in his eyes stood tears of joy. 
 
 With joy immense his heart was riven, 
 And how it swelled to be forgiven! 
 
 When heart is right and heaven is near, 
 How eloquent a single tear! 
 
 But did the vision stay for him? 
 E en as he gazed, he saw it dim. 
 
poems of S^ljn aimrp 79 
 
 On window-panes a glimmer red 
 Crept from the dying clouds and shed 
 
 A barren splendor on the grass 
 
 And seemed the World about to pass. 
 
 This painting vast who could unroll, 
 The dread apocalypse of soul? 
 
 Who saw the earth in wonder drest, 
 Who carried sunset in his breast. 
 
 A little seed of Heart s Desire 
 
 Had burst in blood-red bloom of fire. 
 
 And beauty broke from wondering eyes 
 In flashes of a glad surprise. 
 
 This world was new, unknown before 
 A secret correspondence bore. 
 
 The soul in things appeared divine 
 And made the true duphinic sign. 
 
 A boy looked up and left his play 
 To worship God in his own way. 
 
 There was no way but feeling pure, 
 And that would last while things endure. 
 
 But still the mind within him wrought, 
 According as his faith had taught. 
 
 A row of red-leaved maples stood 
 Like wounded soldiers streaming blood. 
 
so Memorial Volume 
 
 Who mourns the loss of heaven-born power? 
 It came and vanished in an hour. 
 
 It came and went and was to be 
 That sunset over land and sea. 
 
 So looked the world to Hebrew boy 
 Who knew and clasped an awful joy. 
 
 And so when thousand autumns roll 
 May look the World to prophet soul: 
 
 Rut never more on land or sea, 
 Will that Evangel come to me. 
 
 WORSHIP 
 
 Out from the smell of coffin-mold, 
 And from the churchyard gate! 
 Why should I enter churches cold, 
 Or in dim chapels wait? 
 Why kneel upon the gray flag-stones ? 
 Why drink in sighs and groans? 
 
 Why macerate 
 My body, blood, and bones? 
 
 My body is a lyre 
 Composed of water, earth, air, fire; 
 
 With them is kneaded in 
 
 The soul alive 
 
 And sensitive 
 In every part. 
 The soul is organized. 
 I think I have a head, 
 Am sure I have a heart. 
 
ffioemff of Sty)** abarp si 
 
 Tis chorded like a shell, 
 
 And answers to the touch. 
 
 Feeling is overmuch. 
 
 Abuse it not, but learn 
 
 To play upon it well. 
 
 And for the reason that we are 
 
 Poetically made and wrought, 
 
 Painted and carved material thought, 
 
 And thought is worship, thoughts divine 
 
 At once the substance and the sign 
 
 Of being, and a spiritual fact, 
 
 Tis God himself caught in the act. 
 
 The soul attuned 
 To the elements, harpstrings 
 Of all surrounding things 
 
 Is vibrant all, 
 
 Harmonical, 
 Divine and musical - 
 
 Outgrown 
 
 From one small seed, Desire 
 Planted in a far hour, 
 Nourished and nurst 
 All tenderly, until 
 This very morn it burst 
 In blossom of air and fire! 
 The church is good 
 
 For those who like the sermon and the psalm. 
 But I prefer the calm 
 Of sunny silence, and the still 
 Bright beauty that is there 
 With dove-like Peace upon the air 
 Brooding, by south side of a wood. 
 
82 lemotiai Volume 
 
 I need not walk 
 In any silent grove of death. 
 
 I hold my breath 
 To see that God is fair. 
 Nor would I with the ghosts of ages talk, 
 
 And sin and death. 
 Life is my sermon, psalm and prayer. 
 
 Sweet are the chiming bells 
 By distance softened to delight, 
 Like stars upon a frosty night, 
 They sprinkle melody around 
 That to mine ear hath crept. 
 Brightly the sky doth shine 
 Unto this heart of mine, 
 
 Unto this heart. 
 My cordial spirits like new wine 
 
 Have got the start. 
 Gladly, as on I roam, 
 I mark the distant dome 
 Of the Capitol like a bubble blown 
 
 And floating 
 Softly and bright 
 In the still morning light. 
 
 SLUMBER 
 
 Cover me up warm in bed; 
 Cover me from feet to head. 
 Now I feel the drowsy creep 
 Of slumber soft which is not sleep, 
 Lying in my poppied nest, 
 With a genial warmth opprest, 
 
of toljn atoar 83 
 
 I have gone and drunken more 
 Of sweet slumber at each pore; 
 Eyelids of my heart a-winking, 
 I am always drinking, sinking 
 Downward through the ooze of sleep, 
 Many, many fathom deep, 
 Being perfectly at ease 
 Where all pain and sorrow cease, 
 Where sounds of daylight fail 
 And the twilight spells prevail, 
 Deepening to a hush like Death 
 Where all Nature holds her breath. 
 Now a barge across the lake 
 Cometh for a soul to take. 
 
 "MOTHER, I HAVE SAVED ONE. 
 
 I saw a little girl 
 
 Running about the beach; 
 Each pebble was a pearl 
 
 She tried to grasp and reach. 
 Her chubby fists were full, 
 
 Her apron it held more; 
 Yet she was sorrowful 
 
 To leave so vast a store; 
 
 Because the naughty nurse 
 
 Down running to the beach, 
 Caught up the child, and worse, 
 
 Her treasures all and each 
 Made spill along the road 
 
 Till all but one was gone; 
 But that she proudly showed, 
 
 "Mamma, I have saved one. 9 
 
84 Memorial Volume 
 
 Great cities make us think 
 
 Of their young lives in shoals, 
 Like pebbles on the brink 
 
 Where mighty ocean rolls. 
 If you can t save them all, 
 
 Grasp, like the little girl, 
 And have, when nurse doth call, 
 
 One pure and priceless pearl. 
 
 For while we gather some 
 
 Along the shining way, 
 The nurse will surely come 
 
 And carry us away. 
 Give not an ugly name 
 
 To her who stops men s breath, 
 But let some jewel flame 
 
 Out from the Dust of Death. 
 
 1 THE EMPTY SINGER OF AN IDLE DAY" 
 
 I 
 
 An English poet in preluding song, 
 
 Seeking some cause or reason for the lay, 
 Prefers himself before the world to wrong, 
 
 "The empty singer of an idle day." 
 For such he seems while piping to the throng 
 
 In life s mad vortex whirling on, away, 
 Reckless of treasures which to them belong 
 
 Whose hearts are young, whose heads are growing 
 
 gray. 
 Mankind had leisure once to mark and hear 
 
 When poets sung or minstrels tuned the lyre; 
 
 Now the vexed ear of the great world doth tire: 
 
ffioemg of SFofrn afrarp 85 
 
 The critic comes with Mephistophelian sneer 
 And supercilious brow to take offense, 
 And readers read with calm indifference. 
 
 II 
 
 The singer fails in song-craft overwise. 
 
 Should one, by some diviner madness stirred, 
 Venture to soar above the common herd, 
 
 By the sharp critic s penny pen he dies. 
 
 With wing unsteady, failing in the skies, 
 He wavers, falls, and like a wounded bird 
 In reedy silence maketh moan unheard. 
 
 Though all the air be vocal with his cries, 
 
 Always the present singer lacketh grace. 
 Surely, ye praise him not till he is cold! 
 For wit, like wine, grows better, growing old. 
 
 But why should lees and vapid commonplace 
 Pass now for wit or wisdom under names 
 The age has gilded with its lying fames? 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 Born, like the world, in spring, a soul confined 
 In the strict zone of thought, by happy fate, 
 Succinct and beautiful as the Muses mate, 
 
 The perfect model of a man designed 
 
 To teach the age, and meliorate mankind; 
 Alighting on our planet, not too late 
 Returned to heaven, benignant, pure, and great, 
 
 That spirit rare by nature joined to kind 
 
 His beauty was of power, a power-like pearl: 
 
86 jftemorial Bolume 
 
 The brightest and the highest thought inlaid 
 With those transcendant colors of the mind, 
 Mystic and seer and scientist combined, 
 
 Nature s high priest and oracle obeyed, 
 The angelic doctor blushing like a girl. 
 
 GOD S HERO 
 
 (In Memory of Prof. Albert Hopkins.) 
 He wore no plume, nor carried glove nor glaive, 
 And the proud war-horse never he bestrode; 
 But on the narrow, steep and arduous road 
 Of virtue toiling, travel-worn and brave 
 With loins girt up, he went with mind to save 
 The fallen, and relieve the galling load 
 Of sin and misery whose dreadful goad 
 Urges men on destruction and the grave. 
 But not for him the harnessed thunder-steeds 
 Of Victory rushed on fields of glory; shorn 
 Of laurels raised from carrion-flesh abhorred, 
 He found his recompense in those pure meads 
 Where shriven souls like water-lilies borne 
 Lift up their hearts with incense to the Lord. 
 
 TRUST 
 
 My shallop that sat still a sheeted wraith 
 On waters moonless, tideless, windless, dark, 
 And scarcely showing virtue s signal spark 
 
 Above the stagnant sea of life-in-death, 
 
 Feels now the rapture of a heavenly breath 
 Filling the sail, which bears my moving bark 
 Right onward, rushing to the far-shown mark 
 
 By the great lights of knowledge, virtue, faith. 
 
of S^&tt atoarp 87 
 
 Had we not confidence in this our just 
 
 Pilot of Souls, who then would put to sea? 
 Came there no urge of spiritual sympathy 
 
 To move this mass of animated dust, 
 Pillar of fire and cloud could never be 
 That infinite Hope which conquers all mistrust. 
 
 SIN 
 
 The spring was late that year of years gone by, 
 And snow in patches lay upon the ground. 
 I scarce remember how, but yet I found 
 
 Myself wayfaring on the mountains high, 
 
 Night coming on, and storm was in the sky. 
 My way abrupt and sheer to vales profound 
 Showed me the hollow earth in darkness drowned, 
 
 And awful shapes rose up before mine eye. 
 
 Then all that I had heard, or read in youth 
 Milton, Dante, Bunyan or Bible 
 Came rolling on my mind in seas of doubt, 
 
 Enforced by all the thunders of the truth 
 Whose batteries open on that fortress, Sin 
 Girdled with fires of hell, and heaven shut out. 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 The sun, now at the Crab s autumnal sign, 
 Around the circle swings our little sphere, 
 Trailing a splendor out so burning near 
 
 That earth-born spirits tremble in the fine 
 
 Air, and brimful of rich October s wine, 
 Feel such exhilaration in the clear 
 Life of the bright and buoyant atmosphere, 
 
 They want but wings to soar, and sing and shine. 
 
88 fflemortal Botume 
 
 In converse sage friends loiter by the way, 
 Spending the golden hour ere evenfall. 
 
 Come, dress thy soul, be happy, for to-day 
 The world puts on the air of festival. 
 On rainbowed wood, and wold, and mountain wall, 
 
 What light shines through the vesture of decay! 
 
 FUIT ILIUM 
 
 O soul, sonorous, musical, and more 
 Harmonic than the spheres that were made last 
 And leading symphony of the worlds dicast, 
 Where is the key of melodies forlore? 
 There rolls the burden of Time s nevermore 
 Before that Sorrow voiceless, vague and vast, 
 Which dumbs to silence all the happy past 
 A grief of sobbing seas without a shore. 
 
 The frailest outworn creature leaves his shell 
 Behind him on the beach; and that is all 
 The poet leaves the record of his verse; 
 A tarnished shining dress, poor irised cell, 
 The bower of beauty once, now darkness pall, 
 The sepulchre of thought, sad music s hearse. 
 
 HYACINTH 
 
 Sweet Hyacinthus, noble in thy death, 
 And nobler in the life the God bestows! 
 
 The perfect bud of boyhood by a breath 
 
 In recompense of that which fate o erthrows 
 
 By jealous Zephyr slain, tradition saith - 
 From thy spilt blood on earth forever grows, 
 
of ^tt J>atoar 89 
 
 Spotted and purple-stained through mortal skaith, 
 
 The stately flower that from the ground uprose. 
 Still in thy leaves we trace the crimson hue 
 
 Of blooming youth and beauty early cropt 
 By cruel fate; and in thy cup of blue, 
 
 The sorrow of the God who might have dropt 
 A tear from shining eyes that sudden grew 
 
 Dark-purple as that stain when thy heart stopt. 
 
 VIOLIN 
 
 Then came the master; from the violin 
 
 Outpouring sounds like golden humming bees 
 That fill the air and swarm upon the trees 
 
 Did murmur in me such harmonious din 
 
 I dreamed myself beside a rocky linn, 
 
 Or catching glimpses on the pleasant leas, 
 Looking through sunny vales to singing seas 
 
 As far-sailed ships across the world come in. 
 
 That wordless music had a voice to me 
 Charming my passions into perfect rest. 
 As light is but the blended colors seven, 
 
 So differing souls are joined in harmony. 
 For he that is on earth sweet music s guest 
 Gains all we know or think or dream of heaven, 
 
 SUDDEN DEATH 
 
 Voices of anguish wherefore, whence the wail? 
 Death in high places I Sudden death, and where 
 Roses are wreathed in laughing maiden s hair 
 
 Hushed is the sound of revelry, the pale 
 
oo 
 
 Destroyer comes, the lights grow dim, the gale 
 Of laughter sinks to dirges on the air; 
 In banquet-hall alone treads dark Despair, 
 
 And all the customed sounds of joyance fail. 
 
 Not once nor twice that messenger has come! 
 But in some time and place his loud knocks pall 
 The land with terror; least and greatest fall 
 Like reed or oak: the tap of muffled drum 
 Follows the soldier s hearse, and sorrow dumb, 
 For rich and great makes a state funeral. 
 
 WAITING FOR DEATH 
 
 Her life-work done, she sits with folded hands 
 Brave, patient, pure, devout, but passive still; 
 
 Or if at times some household task demands 
 The instant duty which she can fulfil, 
 
 She does it as a person waiting stands 
 To take a journey; as a mother will 
 
 Perform some little act which most endears 
 
 Her memory embalmed in children s tears. 
 
 ONLY A TEAR 
 
 Do you remember in your Dante here 
 
 Reading that passage (please to look below 
 In canto five, the Purgatorio). 
 
 Where in the stream of his deep verse and clear, 
 
 He speaks of one who says he plumbed the sheer 
 Profound of hell, and from the abyss of woe 
 God s angel took him up, and saved him so, 
 
 Just for the sake of one poor little tear. 
 
of ofn atoar 91 
 
 How terrible his doom who cannot shed 
 
 One tear for others, in his marble woe! 
 Far better are the eyes with weeping red. 
 
 Who was it told the guilty woman, "Go!" 
 Forgiven "thy sins which were of scarlet" said 
 
 The pitying angel, "shall be white as snow." 
 
 THE FALLEN ROOF-TREE 
 
 The apple blooms drop down when light winds pass 
 Over the spot that in the sunshine flack, 
 The grace of nature somehow seems to lack, 
 
 No less than human sympathy alas, 
 
 The mouldered rafter in the rank tall grass, 
 Dock-weed and nettle growing in the slack 
 Of stones unmortised from the chimney-stack, 
 
 And thrown down there in a disjointed mass. 
 
 More than a grave is that unsightly hole; 
 A grave unfilled in the long tract of time 
 Since fled the ghost of that unburied joy 
 
 Which once was man a living human soul 
 
 Who saw the blue smoke from his hearth-stone climb, 
 Returned, at eve, to meet his wife and boy. 
 
 HOARFROST 
 
 "He scattereth the hoarfrost like ashes." BIBLE. 
 From the Inferno, Canto XXIV, v. 1-15. 
 
 In the year s forehead when the flaming sun 
 Tempers his locks beneath Aquarius urn, 
 And the nights shorten as the days stretch on; 
 
 When on the ground the Hoarfrost s pen doth yearn 
 To copy there the likeness of her white 
 Sister, but the distempered nib will turn; 
 
92 emorial Bolume 
 
 The countryman whom forage faileth quite 
 Gets up and sees the feather-frosted plains; 
 Whereat he slaps him on the thigh outright; 
 
 Goes in the house, and up and down complains 
 Like the poor wretch that loseth heart of grace; 
 Then out he goes again, and hope regains 
 
 Seeing the world doth wear a changed face 
 
 In a brief while, and takes his shepherd s crook, 
 And drives the flock forth to their feeding-place. 
 
 ON A PRETTY CHILD 
 
 Child, with the soft blue eye, and cheeks that glow, 
 
 Like rosebuds wet with morning dew; 
 Fairer thou shalt be when those beauties grow 
 
 That now are sweetly folded up in you. 
 Would that I were the far-off waiting sigh 
 
 Of Love, whenas that shall come to share 
 The tender secret round thy mouth and eye, 
 
 And make thee happy as thou art most fair! 
 
 ON BEING GOOD 
 
 Be good, be good! It is the great ding-dong, 
 Of preacher, poet, sophist, bard or sage, 
 Heard in all mouths, and read on every page - 
 
 The same old story and the same old song. 
 
 In every style and language, right or wrong, 
 Thundered from pulpit, whispered on the stage, 
 The well-worn commonplace of every age 
 
 Which the world hears and goes on right along. 
 
 There is philanthropy of a kind that s rank 
 And smells to heaven it has ulterior view. 
 
of to n afoar 93 
 
 Have you, sir, any business here? Then thank 
 The Lord in heaven who gave you work to do; 
 
 About your business go and turn a crank. 
 
 Hand-organ? Yes, be good for something, you! 
 
 DUTY 
 
 What is duty? When the hour 
 
 And the task arrive together, 
 
 Then, in foul or in fair weather, 
 Take the sledge, and smite with power 
 On the anvil nearest you. 
 
 Work with all your might and main, 
 
 Work with hand, and heart, and brain, 
 That is duty, to be true 
 And fulfil your office ask 
 No excuse, but do the task. 
 
 "ALL S WELL" 
 
 I seemed to stand upon an Alpine height, 
 
 And hear far-breaking in their mountain caves 
 A rolling thunder as of ocean waves. 
 
 It was the Law, eternal, infinite, 
 
 Which lifts the good to glory and delight, 
 
 And downward drives to their dishonored graves 
 Whom lust or greed or selfishness enslaves, 
 
 Fallen and lost and buried out of sight. 
 
 Eternal cause, eternal consequence! 
 Good to the good and to the evil ill; 
 Blessing or cursing, now choose which ye will, 
 
 But blame not that great law of Providence 
 Which as you sow the good seed or the bad, 
 Shows you the harvest which makes glad or mad. 
 
94 Memorial Volume 
 
 HIS LAST RIDE 
 
 I 
 When seeing, after four long years of stress 
 
 And storm of action, Peace her ways prepare, 
 
 And all the land put on a festal air, 
 Did Abraham Lincoln in his looks no less, 
 Leaving behind his usual sombreness, 
 
 And his most melancholy load of care, 
 
 Gladly go forth with the rejoicing fair, 
 Clothed on with all his people s tenderness. 
 Twas the last day, and his last ride, alack, 
 
 His last but one, who had alone to go 
 To his long home, the world all gone to wrack - 
 
 What miles of mourning streets! what cities, lo, 
 
 Like black beads strung the rosary of woe, 
 Across the land! Hung were the heavens in black. 
 
 II 
 
 Thrice in my time have I beheld that slow 
 Procession move at Murder s beck and deed! 
 Thrice hath our state been garbed in mourning 
 weed, 
 
 As even thrice by the assassin s blow 
 
 The chief magistrate of the land laid low! 
 No ancient tragedy could well exceed 
 In horror and in hate whose awful seed 
 
 Flowered in such fruitage of transcendent woe. 
 
 Such themes as these, because they held of yore 
 The springs of tragedy in their deep source, 
 Shakespeare and Aeschylus brought upon the stage. 
 
of on atoar 95 
 
 Were it not wisely done to reach the core 
 Of murderous anarchy by laws in force, 
 And set example of a better age? 
 
 THE PEN IN THE CLOUD 
 
 My friend s great grief and sorrow for a child 
 Afflicted me because in his white face 
 I saw entombed the hopes of all his race 
 
 And none could comfort him; a grief not wild, 
 
 As woman s is, but hopeless, patient, mild. 
 For women s feelings like soft marriage lace 
 Invest a sorrow with a certain grace: 
 
 But grief like his my friend nor wept nor smiled. 
 
 I told him then to do as poets use 
 
 Who take a pen in hand and all conjoint 
 With the still heavy cloud of grief that girds 
 
 A lonely heart no comforter like Muse! 
 
 She guides the sorrow down the pen s sharp point 
 Precipitate in a gentle shower of words ! 
 
 MATINS 
 
 Now morning comes with scarf of grey 
 
 To usher in the new-born day. 
 
 The mountains stand with foreheads white 
 
 In still sublimity of light. 
 
 Behind the veil of waterfalls 
 
 White-waving from the mountain walls 
 
 High over rocks, high over pines, 
 
 The infinite sacred morning shines. 
 
 From off the earth and crystal seas 
 
 It washes all impurities. 
 
96 lemotial Bolume 
 
 No less the sweat of works and days 
 
 The dust and scum of yesterdays 
 
 Upon the surface of our dreams 
 
 Are washed away in those pure streams. 
 
 Now Heart of Man fresh from the deep 
 
 Lifts level from the seas of sleep. 
 
 His orb of duty slowly fills, 
 
 Prepared to climb the heavenly hills, 
 
 With courage of the new-born day 
 
 And dragons of the darkness slay. 
 
 Fulfilled it is of worship then 
 
 Light-bringer to the sons of men! 
 
 For speed of thought and strength of limb 
 
 By right of old belong to him 
 
 The finder out of arts and arms, 
 
 Forger of weapons and of harms; 
 
 Maker of alphabets which find 
 
 The universe of living mind 
 
 And bring to us untarnished gold 
 
 The immortalities of old. 
 
 The ends of earth together brought 
 
 By telegraphic sign of thought 
 
 The Word whose distillation brings 
 
 The essences and souls of things, 
 
 Preparing still new births of mind 
 
 To tame and civilize mankind. 
 
 Emerging from sleep s solitude 
 
 Man and the world are both renewed. 
 
 The mind whose floors has Morning gained 
 
 Stands as a temple unprofaned. 
 
 Who comes with pure and innocent eye, 
 
 And maiden thought, may lift on high 
 
ffioemg of ffiitm afratp 97 
 
 A soul-and-body breathing hymn 
 Impleted and inspired by Him. 
 Religion is a flight of soul 
 Unto the One and only whole, 
 In exercise a bar of rest 
 To swing from better on to best. 
 
 NERO AND AGRIPPINA 
 
 When burning Rome lay reddening in the dye 
 Of conflagration, and like torrent swirled 
 All things to ruin and destruction hurled, 
 "Give me the lyre," cried Nero, from the high 
 Balcony of the Golden House; "I ll try 
 
 That song of Ilion, when the smoke upcurled 
 Above the roof of Priam, and the world 
 Of Troy sank down in ashes soon to lie." 
 It was an awful moment; glory, shame, 
 
 Men like wild beasts, the hydra mob was seen 
 With hurrying torches; one could just descry 
 Aloft, on crumbling tower, by eating flame, 
 
 That tigress, twice bereaved, the empress-queen, 
 Etched, as in silhouette, against the sky! 
 
 THE LANDING 
 
 Over a flowery land the light mists flee, 
 
 And from the anchored ships the crews are gone. 
 As "washed with morning their moorings shone!" 
 
 Lo, the clear sapphires, of the heaven-hued sea 
 Shine like a floor of lapis lazule. 
 
98 Jftemorial Volume 
 
 But the grand Admiral and the Viceroy thrown 
 With tears and kisses on the earth lay prone, 
 And all rejoiced with joy exceedingly, 
 Hemmed in with wondering naked men at loss 
 And all in pomp of scarlet and of gold; 
 The risen Viceroy in his hand unfurled 
 The banner royal blazoned with a cross 
 
 Vert, and surmounted with a crown that told 
 Who gave Castile and Leon a new world. 
 
 FEMINA MUTABILE 
 
 Said Virgil of yore, in classical lore, 
 
 That woman was truly wanting in stamina; 
 
 And for it comes pat in, I ll give you the Latin: 
 "Mutabile et varium semper femina" 
 
 This mutable she always was, and will be, 
 
 Like the wind and the wave, the cloud and the foam; 
 
 No being most airy, no sprite yet nor fairy, 
 Plays tricks so fantastic abroad or at home. 
 
 The falling leaf brown, the soft thistle down, 
 Is like her the most because most uncertain; 
 
 So wavering still, our pulses to thrill, 
 
 She comes like the rustle of air in a curtain. 
 
 To-day with your fair, an agreeable air, 
 
 Tricked out like the rainbow, how sweet she appears! 
 To-morrow she ll frown, and the sky will pour down, 
 
 If not in a shower, in a drizzle of tears. 
 
 His hand on the tiller, the wind that drops stiller, 
 Now comes in a puff, and dies out as it goes; 
 
 What helmsman is there can steer by such air, 
 
 It whiffles about so, and which way who knows? 
 
of H afoat 99 
 
 This foible of sex which the wise can perplex, 
 The trick of all women, who had it of old, 
 
 From Eve in the Garden to the last Dolly Varden 
 Plays the mischief with men straightforward and 
 bold. 
 
 The pig that one meets all manner of streets 
 
 Goes up, or attempts to, with start and with lurch; 
 
 And that s just the way that a woman to-day 
 
 Behaves with a man when she steers for the church. 
 
 The mart matrimonial, the church ceremonial, 
 She s headlong to urge, but behind if she can; 
 
 And give her the odds, she d beat all the gods, 
 With delays and excuses for fooling a man. 
 
 She s a cushion of pins, as a penance for sins, 
 
 When you sit on the stool of repentance tis true, 
 
 With petty annoyance she kills all the joyance, 
 And makes life a torment to her and to you. 
 
 She s given to pouting, to teasing and doubting, 
 Misfortune is hers, she s always a-miss; 
 But though we may flout her, we can t live without her, 
 Who twines like the ivy, and rhymes bliss with kiss. 
 
 ON A LADY IN CHURCH 
 
 Most gentle lady, and in truth most fair, 
 Forgive me if in homage of thy face, 
 
 I do forget myself, the time and place, 
 
 Only remembering of thy beauty rare 
 
 The dead wan gold of eyelash and of hair 
 The pure refinement of a high-bred race, 
 The soul of delicacy, exquisite grace, 
 
ioo emorial Bolume 
 
 The winning smile and sweet, engaging air. 
 
 I feel thy utter feminine graces strong 
 
 O erlapping so my robust masculine sense, 
 As soft airs falling on a harp-string tense, 
 
 Break into sad and plaintive undersong, 
 Complaining how we gladly suffer in it, 
 Ages of torment for one happy minute. 
 
 BEING IN DOUBT 
 
 Amazed I stand beneath the sky, 
 And wonder who on earth am I. 
 Who brought me to this unknown land? 
 Ten thousand leagues of sea and sand 
 Divorce me from the Man of Sin, 
 Who, some one said, was next of kin. 
 
 And is this desert round me spread 
 
 In apprehension, what I dread, 
 
 To be alone, alone, alone, 
 
 As is some wandering music-tone, 
 
 Alone above the lonely sea 
 
 That hath no rest in being free, 
 
 And ranging through eternity. 
 
 Lo, borne forever on its breast, 
 
 The baby-breakers climb its crest, 
 
 And clap their hands, and shout for glee, 
 
 Upon thy bosom, Mother-Sea! 
 
 Green hills that touch the sunken skies, 
 
 That rise to sink, and sink to rise; 
 
 So go we up and down the ocean, 
 
 In see-saw of eternal motion. 
 
of fon J>6tecJ " " ibi- 
 
 My thought doth waver like the sea. 
 
 I wonder what it is to be! 
 
 Unless our seeing is in vain, 
 
 Being and seeing are not twain, 
 
 (This overhanging cloud of doubt 
 
 Will put the sun of being out,) 
 
 Not twain, but twin whose bond is truth, 
 
 And fountain of Eternal Youth. 
 
 I would not care to stand, or be 
 
 In a great noon of certainty; 
 
 Chained to the wave that meets the sky, 
 
 One bottomless, wide-rolling eye, 
 
 Looked in the face by suns that find 
 
 Dead water-levels of the mind, 
 
 A thousand sunsets left behind. 
 
 Give me the poetry and grace 
 
 Of evening, or a morning face 
 
 The planets in the mind that roll 
 
 Through atmospheres from pole to pole, 
 
 Which make the twilight of the soul. 
 
 In its profound the stars come out, 
 
 And mountains raise their heads in doubt. 
 
 Thank God that being one can be 
 
 A miracle, a mystery. 
 
 But see! the setting sun of life, 
 
 Makes shadows there of man and wife. 
 
 They are expressed in God as nought, 
 
 (Expression is the mask of thought,) 
 
 And crumble back to something vain, 
 
 Part of the dust that walks the plain; 
 
 A wave that comes up from the sea; 
 
 Uncurls, and breaks, a moment free. 
 
io2 emorial Bolume 
 
 THE GREATEST CURSE 
 
 Of curses I have read, and not a few. 
 
 The church s ban with bell, book, candle bound, 
 The curse of excommunication round 
 
 One rooted to the spot in horror new 
 
 As on some blasted heath a stunted yew. 
 Within the lids of our old Bible found 
 The most tremendous curse of all bove ground, 
 
 Was long since launched against the Wandering Jew. 
 
 But yet methinks there is a heavier curse 
 Denounced as coming, or as come on what 
 Horace declared an evil past all cure: 
 
 As when he said of mediocre verse, 
 It was such poetry as truly not 
 Nor gods nor men nor temples could endure! 
 
 CULTURE 
 
 Kingdom of uses is the kingdom good. 
 
 And all our learning is not worth a pin 
 
 If human culture fails at last to win 
 Both light and leisure to the man who would 
 Improve himself, and eke the world that stood 
 
 Ages of darkness, heathendom and sin. 
 
 Candles with Christianity came in: 
 That gave more light and sense of brotherhood. 
 It is not safe to treat your neighbor ill. 
 
 All waste and all neglect is shameful too. 
 
 Our globe is better aired and lighted; who 
 That has the arc light, wants the old "dip" still? 
 
 What in future civilized men may do, 
 They will not ravage, burn, destroy and kill. 
 
of ton atmr 103 
 
 HIGH WATER-MARK 
 
 In the great deep of feeling, currents main 
 Traverse all moods and climates of the soul, 
 Over the dim unsounded depths to shoal 
 
 In thoughts that to the shores of speech attain: 
 
 Filling the earth with murmured music-rain, 
 Or dashing on to Silence s mighty mole, 
 Fond hearts that break amid the breakers roll 
 
 When some great passion floods both heart and brain. 
 
 But yet a man will sooner risk his bark 
 Amid the boisterous seas of passion rude 
 Than idly safe in port and anchor ride. 
 
 Better the flood which makes high water-mark 
 
 Than the low sea that crawls with no wreck strewed, 
 A stagnant mere without wind, moon or tide. 
 
 CHINLEY CHURN 
 
 On Eildon Hill an unknown hero sleeps. 
 And with him buried arms, a trophied urn, 
 Above him raised the pile of Chinley Churn; 
 
 From whence the gazer with a bold eye sweeps 
 
 A noble country where the castled steeps 
 Look down on forest, frith and river s turn 
 O er which the evening skies in glory burn, 
 
 And the sad-colored sky of Autumn weeps. 
 
 We call a stone-heap what they called a cairn. 
 They meant it for a monumental pile, 
 
 Cromlech or altar, cairn or sculptured stones. 
 
 But to the simple superstitious bairn, 
 
 The dead complained, and so they said erewhile, 
 ( Light lie the turf upon his honored bones"! 
 
104 Memorial Volume 
 
 THE WORLD S DEBT TO SCHOLARS 
 
 The world owes much to scholars; and the debt 
 Is such as well can never be repaid; 
 In close retirement delving in the shade 
 
 Before all virtue they put bars of sweat. 
 
 Slaves of the mine! what sparkling jewels yet, 
 What sunless riches as of suns outrayed, 
 King s treasuries, libraries, museums, trade, 
 
 They ve brought to light, and in full glory set. 
 
 Two noble works before me lie outspread. 
 One is the "Buke" of Sir John Mandeville, 
 "Writ in romance," and englished out of it. 
 
 The other that ancient "Book of the Dead" 
 Whose picture-writing hieroglyphics fill, 
 Which, to decipher, needs a famous wit. 
 
 CITY AND COUNTRY 
 
 A Didactic Poem 
 
 I 
 
 O fortunate pilgrim at the break of day 
 Who had, then, setting out on life s highway, 
 Of woodland vistas the far looking through 
 For pillared arch and long-drawn avenue! 
 What s well in Luxor and Persepolis 
 In modern cities one would rather miss; 
 Unless to wander in midsummer s wide 
 Deserted ways at midnight there, with bride 
 Of silence looking through the foliage far 
 To catch the twinkle of the Evening Star, 
 And feel the purple pride men trample on, 
 Shall be as Bagdad or as Babylon. 
 
of >n atoar 105 
 
 But where no jackals prowl nor serpents hiss, 
 
 If he felicitate himself on this, 
 
 Tis not so much that solitude is sweet, 
 
 Nor harsh to him the thunder of the street, 
 
 As feeling in the hubbub and the strife 
 
 The insecurity of human life, 
 
 And seeing in those all converging lines 
 
 Where the web city s vast concentric shines, 
 
 How the drawn foot deplores in every way 
 
 The tendency therein to go astray, 
 
 One dreads that forest of enchantment, hurled 
 
 In the great wood of error of this world. 
 
 Fraud there and Folly spin their separate web 
 
 For silly flies, and there the mighty ebb 
 
 And flow of business with its endless roar 
 
 Is heard like ocean on a surf-boat shore. 
 
 Lowell in London heard it, and sublime 
 
 It seemed to him the roaring loom of time" 
 
 Forever weaving to no end or date, 
 
 The awful web of crossing wills and fate 
 
 Whose everlasting clash and conflict brings 
 
 Up Virgil s sense of tears in human things." 
 
 But is that human flux and reflux more 
 
 Impressive by its dull, continuous roar 
 
 Than is the sight and presence of the dread 
 
 Supremacy of light on some bald head 
 
 Of heaven-high battlements with their great shag 
 
 From base to summit of the toppling crag 
 
 Which, thunder-smitten, is forever more 
 
 Gray with the ages everlasting hoar? 
 
 Cities and states may sink in their own slime 
 
 Along the littoral ruins of old Time, 
 
106 emorial Volume 
 
 But these remain, the mountains and the sea, 
 
 Two things that have been and shall always be; 
 
 Though changing place, as witness eke the strong 
 
 Weird in some old forgotten ballad song: 
 
 For waters shall wax and woods shall wane, 
 
 Hill and moss shall be torn in, 
 
 But the bannock shall never be braider" 
 
 No place is where vicissitude is not, 
 
 But love and hunger ear the human lot. 
 
 As rivers vary in their speed and force, 
 
 So human passions in their headlong course; 
 
 But none the less, as wisdom erst foresaw, 
 
 Their terms and quantities are fixed by law. 
 
 One Power sets limits to the wandering foam, 
 
 French Revolution and the Fall of Rome. 
 
 What seems more permanent than the mountain head? 
 
 And yet it crumbles like a loaf of bread. 
 
 All things are molded in a manner, so 
 
 The marble made is plastic as the dough. 
 
 Dost thou remember, man, the johnny-cake 
 
 Which our good mothers used erstwhile to bake? 
 
 To Indian meal and water mixed and scalt 
 
 To bake before the fire, add pinch of salt, 
 
 And there s the bannock which old wives afford 
 
 As it came smoking hot from off the board, 
 
 Which eaten with fresh butter did, with routh 
 
 Of maple syrup, fairly melt n the mouth. 
 
 This was a dish in old New England days 
 
 Which any epicure might justly praise; 
 
 And Joel Barlow s Hasty Pudding" is 
 
 Not to be mentioned any day with this ! 
 
 But here my homely illustration, sooth, 
 
 Is peg to hang an economic truth. 
 
ffioemg of ffirfjn afratp 107 
 
 You cannot have your cake and eat it, too, 
 
 And hunger s law which even has to do 
 
 With wearing tides still the land invade, 
 
 Is not more constant than the course of trade. 
 
 Aye, waters shall wax and woods shall wane, 
 
 And what you lose will another gain, 
 
 But the bannock shall never be braider. 
 
 Who dreams of larger bakers loaves iwis 
 
 Reckons without the host of avarice. 
 
 More deep and strong almost than human need 
 
 The grip of custom and the grasp of greed. 
 
 Of course, the country will outlive the town, 
 
 But will it live to put monopoly down? 
 
 Not till the farmers learn like sturdy sons 
 
 Of toil so stand embattled by their guns. 
 
 And strength they have but not yet eyes to see 
 
 And arms to strike the entrenched enemy. 
 
 Some day perchance when they shall organize 
 
 The People s party, a new morn will rise 
 
 On the midnoon of our prosperity. 
 
 The dollar mark on all things set to see, 
 
 In business battles then, will but enhance 
 
 The strife where all men have an equal chance. 
 
 And none shall lack the necessary fee 
 
 Of labor lost for superfluity. 
 
 The battle will be when are seen arrayed 
 
 The sons of toil against the sons of trade. 
 
 Let those determine in the world s folk-mote 
 
 The cost of the world s breakfast, corn or oat 
 
 Meal, if the johnny-cake be good, then, eat, 
 
 And trade will soon adjust the balance-sheet. 
 
 But middlemen like millers, toll will take, 
 
 A measure from the mouth of mealsack, make 
 
108 ftemorial Volume 
 
 The bannock broader only for the thief, 
 
 (Fide the Miller s tale in Chaucer, chief), 
 
 And so the farmer still will come to grief. 
 
 The "grangers," aye, a most respectable class, 
 
 Have borne their burden like the patient ass; 
 
 They, when the tithe and the tax-gatherer come 
 
 Like sheep before the shearer still are dumb. 
 
 But will it be so in the land at length 
 
 When they shall come to know and use their strength ? 
 
 Which organized and drilled and trained might be 
 
 To throttle trusts and starve monopoly. 
 
 Considering how the world s support indeed, 
 
 Depends upon the shooting of a seed, 
 
 Who have the seed to sow, and hence prepare 
 
 Must in their way the world s chief burden bear. 
 
 Yet the desertion of the cot and mill, 
 
 Of farm and homestead for the shop and till 
 
 Is the marked tendency of modern days, 
 
 And augurs ill for the Republic s ways. 
 
 Look at those towns which, as it well appears, 
 
 Have stationary stood an hundred years. 
 
 The land stagnates, and then the popular curse 
 
 Deterioration makes the matter worse. 
 
 The old hill towns of their New England clan 
 
 And farms abandoned almost to a man 
 
 Deserted are, in consequence you find 
 
 The dregs of population left behind. 
 
 A frightful state of morals supervenes 
 
 On heathenism such as thereto leans, 
 
 Of which one feature is the female mind 
 
 In solitude and isolation pined, 
 
 Leading, where wreck of womanhood survives, 
 
 To much insanity among farmers wives. 
 
of ^N J>afcar 109 
 
 From personal knowledge yet I cannot say 
 
 If these things be, but well indeed they may. 
 
 As the old English stock is lessening, so 
 
 Increasing see the proletariat grow. 
 
 Old neighbors living on the road or pike 
 
 Give way to foreign faces and dislike. 
 
 Swedish and Finnish, French and Irish hands 
 
 Hold the fee simple now of house and lands. 
 
 The cattle and their owners supersede 
 
 A nobler by a meaner race and breed. 
 
 The country slipping back to wildness turns, 
 
 The pastures grow thorn bushes, brake and ferns. 
 
 The stone-heap is a mass of matted vines, 
 
 The gate-post leans, the parasite entwines, 
 
 And by the gap-toothed gray stone wall one sees 
 
 A stunted row of ancient apple trees. 
 
 The sumach in the fall appears to smoke, 
 
 And clings the grapevine to the doddered oak. 
 
 In glebe and upland for good grazing fair, 
 
 Were arable lands which now white birches bear. 
 
 The foxtail once that plumed th embankment wall 
 
 Is choked with weeds, and the short mowing all 
 
 That green and bowery in the summer shone 
 
 With spruce and hemlock now is overgrown. 
 
 A pump stands where the open well once stood 
 
 Under the sky, the water then was good. 
 
 The meadow brook with its flower d border rich 
 
 Is nothing else now but a stagnant ditch. 
 
 And the vine withers, stem and branch whose trail 
 
 Along the wall hangs by a rusty nail; 
 
 The rose-bush, too, which taps the window pane, 
 
 Looks for each old familiar face in vain: 
 
no temorial Volume 
 
 It seems discouraged, and like all things fair 
 Will flourish only in congenial air. 
 
 Where are the old folks? Ask the burying-ground 
 For their memorial by each grassy mound. 
 Or ask the lilac bush that stood before 
 Their pleasant homes and cottages of yore. 
 Lo there, the cellar hole whose mournful story 
 Is, in that "smoke of earth" called fumitory; 
 Told by remains of the old chimney stack 
 With burdock, weeds and nettles in a pack; 
 Where night winds sigh, and sighing overpass 
 The blackened rafter lying in the grass. 
 And there is heart-break in the wind that waves 
 The grass above this land of household graves. 
 The stout old apple-tree alone remains, 
 But sour and crabbed in his knurly veins, 
 Not as of old his branching top and tall 
 Which loaded took the "slantin light o fall;" 
 Cornwallis then was, and like strain and stress 
 Of martial virtue flowed the cider-press; 
 Great heaps of apples lay upon the ground, 
 The urchins came, old dobbin went around 
 The tan-bark circle, and the rollers wreak 
 A vengeance on the pippin as they squeak; 
 The farmer brought his apples to the mill, 
 And the wise deacon, then, who owned the still, 
 When every wife put cider in mince pies, 
 Had in his orchard aye a noble prize: 
 Now, blighted fruit, the worm is at the core, 
 The orchard gone with cider-mill of yore - 
 The picturesque of landscape is no more! 
 
of ^tt abar 111 
 
 CITY AND COUNTRY 
 
 A Didactic Poem 
 
 II 
 
 What hope for youth whose native country drains 
 
 Its health and strength, its energy and brains 
 
 In mammon service and the greedy maw 
 
 Of city trade and corporation law? 
 
 See mountainous wealth o ertopping to beslime 
 
 What gulfs of poverty, wretchedness and crime! 
 
 Here luxury lolls upon its cushioned seat 
 
 Of triumph o er the beggar on the street. 
 
 The cars that rattle with their own feet 
 
 In brutal disregard of all they meet 
 
 Are not more ruthless than the Powers that grind 
 
 Forever on youth s budding hopes and blind, 
 
 And which to trampled hearts in that wine-press 
 
 Contrast the ruin and the wretchedness 
 
 With Nature s old elm-shadowed homestead farm, 
 
 And all the country s lost idyllic charm. 
 
 Life that descends from mountain peaks of rose 
 
 To the dead level of the dullest prose 
 
 Is his, exchanging for a woodland dress 
 
 The city s waste and howling wilderness. 
 
 Not bred on Russian steppes nor barren moor 
 
 The pack of wolves that hunt the city poor. 
 
 Sometimes they hunt, alas, it should be so, 
 
 A Spenser, Collins, Chatterton or Poe! 
 
 Of all sad things, the saddest on this earth 
 
 The tragedy of genius is from birth. 
 
 But leaving this, as no man can divine 
 
 The reason why such pearls are cast to swine, 
 
112 emorial Bolume 
 
 Take the raw youth from country come to town, 
 Lured by big fees and prospect of renown. 
 Fooled by illusion, forward-looking Hope 
 To young Ambition offers boundless scope. 
 There is a crowd to hinder and to stop, 
 But always room, they tell him, at the top. 
 He looks again into his heart and reads, 
 "The many fail, but still the one succeeds." 
 Ah, but my friend, who knows if you re the one 
 Whom glory calls, ambition s chosen son? 
 Suppose, at last, you have attained the prize, 
 At what a cost! all satisfaction dies. 
 To pay for sitting on a worldly throne, 
 Toil, torture, heart-break, life itself a groan! 
 
 But now, suppose our country youth installed 
 
 In some town office, he is gibed and galled; 
 
 As time goes on, he pines in discontent, 
 
 He had not counted an environment. 
 
 For rural sights and sounds and moonlit glades, 
 
 What are the city s broken lights and shades? 
 
 There first, familiar as the morning street, 
 
 The plodding merchant at his balance-sheet; 
 
 The store s long counter, and trade s knight-errant, 
 
 The saucy waiter at the restaurant; 
 
 The tired shop girl, the seamstress poor and proud 
 
 Making a sister s bridal robe or shroud; 
 
 The gouty rich man s red Burgundian wine, 
 
 The labor union, and the turn-verein; 
 
 Throw in, of course, the theatre and the ball, 
 
 And add the siren of the music-hall; 
 
 Statues and paintings, letters, arts, the case is 
 
 Where literature is on a business basis, 
 
of ofjn atoar 113 
 
 The publisher who builds his House of Fame 
 
 On the commercial value of a name, 
 
 Must take for granted the diviner spark 
 
 Of poesy branded by the dollar mark. 
 
 He knows what s what, and to compose in rhyme 
 
 A misdemeanor, poetry a crime; 
 
 Or if not that, tis heresy and schism, 
 
 Flat treason to the state commercialism 
 
 Which rules the roost, and relegates all verse 
 
 To rhyming punsters, like Hood s "prose and worse," 
 
 The stale of editors who jest at "beans" 
 
 And verses made to chink the magazines. 
 
 Because there are no Miltons left, men smile 
 
 At poets, or poeticules; meanwhile 
 
 The reader quenches at his daily toil 
 
 A thousand lamps of the burned midnight oil: 
 
 And yet what endless reams of written slosh 
 
 Where every paper pours its boundless bosh, 
 
 And he whose labors on the cold types wait, 
 
 Bound to a wheel of fire, Ixion s fate, 
 
 Is of all trades the first in that huge wen, 
 
 Type of a world of cities and of men 
 
 Who live in crowds to die at last alone. 
 
 Few note his passing, and his latest moan 
 
 Disturbs not his successor at the case, 
 
 Who must keep up the same terrific pace, 
 
 His intellect a tool, his heart a stone, 
 
 A soul to justice and to pity blind, 
 
 While cant and catch-words fill his mouth and 
 
 mind; 
 
 Case-hardened wretch in ignorance as great 
 As paper walls make his the cocoon s fate 
 To die imprisoned, and, a grub to date, 
 
114 fficmotial Bcrfume 
 
 Strive as he may, and hustle as he can 
 
 To do his duty like a little man, 
 
 He never can catch up, nor put a stop 
 
 To that which rolls and rolls, and from the top 
 
 Goes like the wind regardless, and amain 
 
 Is heaved uphill to thunder down again. 
 
 Another spills his life about the club, 
 
 Or, a Diogenes of the town and tub, 
 
 Scorns wealth and fashion, mocks at beauty vain, 
 
 Condemns all trades, and all men rogues in-grain, 
 
 Makes no exception, being one and all 
 
 The slaves of circumstance, occupation s thrall, 
 
 A starved flower-life within a crannied wall. 
 
 What chance has beauty to be seen or felt 
 
 Where lives are barren as the karroo s veldt? 
 
 Are river waters sweeter for the drains 
 
 Of a great city with its feculent stains ? 
 
 Or breathing airs more pure for sooty pall 
 
 Of coal-smoke banners trailing over all? 
 
 Where commerce murmurs in the busy hive 
 
 With thoughts of gain in every breast alive, 
 
 Around their hearts can charity entwine 
 
 Where men are hustled like the hustling swine? 
 
 Can they who only grovel there and grope, 
 
 Cherish ideals and a boundless hope? 
 
 Can pure religion in the world befriend 
 
 The man a muckrake to a sordid end? 
 
 Can love of country ever rooted grow 
 
 In stony streets, or thrive in Rotten Row? 
 
 Soul must take root in nature, born to share 
 
 The boundless ether, and as pilgrim fare 
 
 In the Blue Distance without stay or stop, 
 
 The vast horizon of the mountain top, 
 
of ^fjn abar 115 
 
 Not that wherefrom one sees the starry fleet 
 
 In the deep canon of a midnight street; 
 
 Or in that heaven to her still under ban, 
 
 Of sad significance to the courtezan 
 
 Standing at midnight on a bridge of stone, 
 
 Who sees the burning lamps in heaven that shone 
 
 Far round the bay that mirrors heaven to her 
 
 Become the foot-lights of a theatre, 
 
 The painted stage of meretricious art; 
 
 Dazed by the cruel lights that on her heart 
 
 Shrink to a glare of endless gas-jets bright, 
 
 A fiery serpent winding out of sight 
 
 In the black hollow heart of the great town; 
 
 O Heaven! the lid of sorrow shutting down, 
 
 Black Melancholia comes to blast and blight 
 
 As in that city clept of Dreadful Night; 
 
 Or even as Dante once the domes of Dis 
 
 (More hospitable, one thinks, than may be this) ! 
 
 Red rising saw, where one confronted is 
 
 With selfish grandeur s stony mark and stir 
 
 Of Pride blaspheming its red sepulchre. 
 
 The Bridewell of a world of souls is there 
 
 If not for punishment, for probation where? 
 
 One to the Senate goes, another while 
 
 Drunk and disorderly goes to the rock-pile; 
 
 A workhouse here for corrigible churls, 
 
 And there a home for dissipated girls. 
 
 How much trade morals and indecent haste 
 To get rich have debauched the public taste! 
 What are these trusts that all men s rights invade 
 But upas trees that threaten to o ershade 
 And blight the world of enterprise and trade! 
 
116 emorial Bolume 
 
 The dreadful plant of evil all can see, 
 But not the axe laid at root of the tree. 
 Not Vergil s hind the felled oak falling more 
 Vast by avulsion set the hills a-roar, 
 Than will the chopper who shall undertake 
 That tree whose downfall half the world can shake! 
 Lo, where the multi-millionaire encamps, 
 He leaves a wandering horde of worthless tramps. 
 "Jeshurun waxed fat and kicked;" it may be then 
 Men look for change and overturnings when 
 Too much prosperity leads the merry dance 
 Of drunken revelers at the land s Last Chance; 
 And chance it may that sometime there the Fates 
 May change post-horses for post-obit dates. 
 Whatever happens in the world of trade, 
 Despite the midnight raider and the raid, 
 The bandit trust, this modern Claude Duval 
 Who robs the state and makes the law his pal, 
 All things by nature strongest in the strong 
 Refuse to be mismanaged overlong. 
 Let cities have, though magnates miss a pull, 
 Both civic courage and municipal. 
 And since bad men are banded for ill deeds, 
 Why not the good, where good as oft succeeds ? 
 There is a communism of power and pelf 
 In organization which betrays itself. 
 And this betrayal in a manner must 
 Succeed in undermining any trust, 
 Or wicked combination using laws 
 Bad for the state and for the people s cause. 
 The scholar, too, in politics will fight 
 Well armed with Goethe s watchword here, "More 
 light!" 
 
of cn afcar 117 
 
 Let him drag forth the evil thing by dint 
 
 Of pitiless publicity to stand in print. 
 
 When men once read and ponder on the fact 
 
 Of what is done, they will know how to act. 
 
 Bad men prefer most any other box 
 
 To being pilloried in the public stocks. 
 
 Responsibility if you can fix, 
 
 No fury, then, of partisan politics 
 
 Obscures the light of purification s beam 
 
 In what one called "an iridescent dream." 
 
 But since the world demands of all who know 
 
 Sweetness and light, the power to touch and go 
 
 Over the tops and apices of things, 
 
 Come to the fountain-head and at the springs 
 
 Of life and action, seek but to disclose 
 
 What from the root of true distinction grows. 
 
 If one would seek the characteristic trait 
 
 Of town and country life, discriminate. 
 
 As Beauty s feast of roses is not feast 
 
 Of thistles for the munching Blatant Beast, 
 
 So neither can good taste accept the type 
 
 In mind and morals of the rotten-ripe. 
 
 As wildness grows in country pasture downs, 
 
 The contrary eke in cities and in towns; 
 
 Look at the wilted fruit the market kills; 
 
 No innocent blueberry ever left the hills 
 
 For Boston yet," said once the quaint Thoreau. 
 
 But the wild strawberry, if the reader know, 
 
 It has a flavor which the tamer fruit 
 
 Will never come to, though it may not suit 
 
 A city palate, and this difference clear 
 
 In moral taste and tone and atmosphere, 
 
118 memorial Volume 
 
 Is just the difference which a man sets down 
 
 Betwixt the rustic tang and tamer town. 
 
 No more alike than is the city mode 
 
 To country fashion, or the grass-grown road 
 
 That shows me here a wild flower once that grew 
 
 In Winthrop s Journal, which I pluck for you. 
 
 When Winthrop s venture by good fortune ran 
 
 To land his company upon Cape Ann, 
 
 Ripened in June against their coming, lo, 
 
 A great profusion of fine strawberries, so 
 
 After their long sea-voyage, and the dry 
 
 Remainder biscuit with fat pork to fry, 
 
 Women and children hasting in accord 
 
 Go fall upon their knees and thank the Lord 
 
 For His provision of that luscious fruit 
 
 To which the old divine preferred his suit 
 
 In that God might have made a better, hid 
 
 In grass than strawberry, though he never did; 
 
 Perchance there was in that ship s company then 
 
 Among the women and the coarser men 
 
 Some puritan lover s young ideal, dream 
 
 Of maid with cheeks like strawberry in cream, 
 
 And all the better if the cream were iced, 
 
 And fruit retained a tang of virtue spiced; 
 
 And so, to bring the parallel further down 
 
 Betwixt the taste of country and of town, 
 
 I match the puritan maid where strawberries grew 
 
 Gainst golden girl, Belle of Fifth Avenue. 
 
 From off the berry brushed is gone that fine 
 
 Exceeding flavor like some rare old wine. 
 
 And this is somewhat to be noted, then, 
 
 As time obliterates all distinction when 
 
of Ptrfn ^atoar 119 
 
 The traveled folk in going up and down, 
 In country places carry still the town; 
 Observe the women s scent for fashions warm 
 At railroad stations on the wide platform; 
 The Governor s daughter is no better drest 
 Than the mechanic s or the farmer s best 
 In bib and tucker late from boarding school, 
 With her piano and her music stool. 
 The web of life is woven still perforce 
 Of all the strands of human intercourse. 
 As people buy their clothing ready-made, 
 They take opinions, too, and tools of trade 
 From those who manufacture both in shop. 
 Where does the influence of the city stop ? 
 As the great whirlpool in its vortex draws 
 Whatever comes in current of its cause, 
 So does the country feel this drawing down 
 In all things tending to the populous town. 
 The Farmer s Year through every day and hour 
 Adds to predominance of its wealth and power, 
 As each subscriber at the regular rate 
 Helps to maintain the flourishing Fourth Estate. 
 
 So, have I struck at last the well-worn trail 
 That leads me home, and if my art prevail 
 To shoot an arrow straight, in manner, sooth, 
 Through twelve ranged axes in the eye of truth! 
 Why then, so be it, though the reader rail 
 And swear as oil and water will not mix, 
 So neither poetry and politics. 
 But never none of these things move me, no 
 Appealing to the shade of Edgar Poe! 
 
120 emorial Bolume 
 
 To Wordsworth, rather, who gave ten hours, he 
 
 To politics for one to poetry. 
 
 For every writer knows who has a true 
 
 Divining instinct when he holds a clue 
 
 That leads directly to the door of truth; 
 
 And he remembers reading in his youth 
 
 That Truth and Poetry dwelt in sweet accord 
 
 Under one roof, and Beauty was their lord. 
 
 But I must mind my business here to seek 
 
 The true solution of a problem, pique 
 
 My reader s judgment and his honest doubt 
 
 To find the marrow of the subject out. 
 
 But as for politics no need to ware 
 
 The dragging in what is already there. 
 
 And when the Surgeon will dissect, no fear 
 
 But he will lay the scalpel rightly here! 
 
 Now, the biologist discovers well 
 
 The naked germ, the protoplasmic cell 
 
 Of life that gropes and grows and germinates 
 
 The ruling power of cities and of states; 
 
 Regarding which the ovum is not laid 
 
 In City Councils, or in Boards of Trade; 
 
 The formal matter, spirit, life and dress 
 
 Of cities is in their Newspaper Press. 
 
 And going here to fountain head and mart 
 
 Of honor and of profit, thence outstart 
 
 Soldiers of fortune, as the time affords, 
 
 Who sell their pens, as erst they sold their swords. 
 
 They are the Hessians of all causes fought 
 
 By these Free Lances in the field of thought. 
 
 Bold and unscrupulous ever in debate, 
 
 You see him there the devil s advocate; 
 
of ofjn afoar 121 
 
 Though wrapt in endless toil of wordy care 
 
 On every page, the hoof and horns are there. 
 
 With fine Socratic irony and pause, 
 
 Another champions the better cause. 
 
 But neither will forego reward for this, 
 
 Beside the gaudia certaminis. 
 
 So let me catch of the uncertain, dim, 
 
 Or ere the features of this cloud dislimn 
 
 What I observe to tell how spirits come 
 
 And shape that moving cloud, newspaperdom. 
 
 I can but sketch in very brief outline 
 
 The general movement, and for that, in fine 
 
 I draw, albeit with a watery pen, 
 
 The lives and characters of a class of men, 
 
 Who have, chameleon-like in hue and tone, 
 
 No will and no opinions of their own; 
 
 But what their masters want, they will supply; 
 
 Somehow they live, and O Lord, how they lie! 
 
 I beg your pardon, gentlemen, purvey, 
 
 And somewhat given to romancing, heigh? 
 
 In master Vergil s sketch of Common Fame, 
 
 Behold at once their glory and their shame. 
 
 Newspaper faking is the vice express 
 Of cities laid to reader s idleness. 
 It is a trade, a business like the rest, 
 Which gives to life a certain sort of zest, 
 But ah, it withers like Sirocco s touch 
 And some the Boer in South Africa; 
 Some the Sierras and Andean nooks, 
 And some like Kipling in his Jungle Books; 
 Some are pearl-divers and gold-seekers, fain 
 Of Solomon s Mines and Alan Quatermain. 
 
122 lemonal Volume 
 
 But in a. general way, like ospreys then, 
 
 They fish for news, these hardy fishermen. 
 
 Observe their dragnet cast, how well it thrives ! 
 
 At every throw they scoop a million lives! 
 
 They live by "scoops" and taking in their ten 
 
 The one supreme and valuable asset 
 
 Of all their readers yet remaining time 
 
 To finish tasks in, humble or sublime. 
 
 Not theirs for men the poets "winged words" 
 
 Like fruitful seeds far-sown by singing-birds, 
 
 But just one dreary and monotonous waste 
 
 Of words, words, words, Sahara to the taste. 
 
 You who have work to do, leave these Bad 
 
 Lands, 
 
 To plodders in immeasurable sands, 
 Who face the desert and the red simoom 
 For gold and merchandise, and let the spoom 
 Of earth pass over, lying low, good bye! 
 The mirage of the desert shows the eye 
 Smooth liquid lakes and clusters of palm-trees, 
 Verdure and freshness and the blowing breeze. 
 The flower of mind that trusts it overmuch. 
 The vulgar world is of the vulgar sheet, 
 The tone, the voice, the echo of the street. 
 To read it is to hear loud voices start 
 From every corner of the public mart. 
 From mouth to mouth the tale of wonder flies 
 In the crammed cars and to the bulging eyes. 
 And when there s nothing, then at nothing laugh, 
 For lo, the light-outspeeding telegraph 
 Bears nothing on its beam that you can scan." 
 Day unto day adds knowledge as it can 
 Of weakness, vice and littleness in man. 
 
of tof J>atoar 123 
 
 But why make this of mind the daily ration 
 
 And leave the nobler part of contemplation? 
 
 It is the reader s fault if he conspire 
 
 With other wasters of his time, and dire 
 
 The consequence to him who only reads 
 
 Line after line as wave on wave suceeds 
 
 Monotonous, of Ocean s endless smile 
 
 And its no-meaning to each liquid mile. 
 
 But wander down and far along the shore 
 
 Where these men keep their implements and store, 
 
 And there is romance and adventure then, 
 
 Soldiers of fortune? yes, Bohemian. 
 
 Some hunt the lion and the jaguar, 
 
 But though in these wide wastes of print there are 
 
 Oases in the desert, one goes far 
 
 To swing a hammock in a shady nook, 
 
 Absorb mint-juleps and a charming book. 
 
 Escaped the peril, candor bids me own 
 
 That there are papers of high moral tone, 
 
 Broad and impartial views, and critiques quite 
 
 Free from all rancor, and mere personal spite. 
 
 Trees by their fruits, and grains by acreage, 
 
 But judging papers by their parentage, 
 
 They do small credit to their owners hand, 
 
 Still less to the towns and cities of the land. 
 
 Are they much better than in days gone by, 
 
 When Dickens gave them a blackened eye? 
 
 It is their boast to give in every clime, 
 
 The very age and body of the time. 
 
 And so, unless the times are better, how 
 
 Can they be better which reflect them now? 
 
 Tis even worse when they contribute to 
 
 Those chief disorders they inflame and woo. 
 
124 jftemorial Bolume 
 
 Here Horace warns me that I must not tread 
 On dolorous ash of smouldering fires yet red. 
 The newspaper contains, or should do, say, 
 The history of the globe for one full day. 
 But since it covers not a millionth part 
 Of mankind s doings, all its patchwork art 
 And enterprise amounts to, is the spilt 
 Contents resembling most a crazy-quilt, 
 Where each contributor puts in a patch, 
 But figures, forms and colors hardly march. 
 And so, the indictment justly framed on this, 
 Of the most popular newspaper is, 
 It rates the intelligence of its readers as 
 That of mere children and of savages. 
 The snipperty-snapperty itemizing press, 
 The shreds and purple patches in its dress, 
 Are all intended here to catch the eye, 
 Like Sunday s colored supplements, but why 
 This vulgar horse-play and mere idiocy? 
 The reason totters, intellect retreats 
 At sight of all these penny-dreadful sheets. 
 Some in the vastness of their vacuity 
 Lack all coherence and just continuity. 
 One reads and reads but seldom ever meets 
 Embodied thought, but ghostly winding-sheets 
 Made out of words voluminous and vast 
 Like winter snowflakes falling thick and fast, 
 Until the mind is buried fathoms deep 
 Beneath the torpor of benumbing sleep. 
 But here s the wonder of all words, confess 
 The modern marvel of Hoe s printing-press! 
 It is debatable if the art has still 
 Been more productive here of good than ill. 
 
of ofm atoar 125 
 
 Johannes Fust and Gutenberg were both 
 
 Responsible it seems, and nothing loath 
 
 To help it forward, one with brains therefor, 
 
 And one with needed sinews of the war. 
 
 But though Krupp s cannon in effect may change 
 
 The map of empire, tis not half so strange 
 
 And potent in its working with times ripe 
 
 For revolution as the leaded type. 
 
 And you ll agree with Hosea Biglow, 
 
 Who knew some things, and how to put them too 
 
 He found regarding both as types of change, 
 
 Twas Gutenberg s gun that had the longer range. 
 
 But to the men behind the guns, not I 
 
 Nor any other man not prone to lie, 
 
 Will ever shout defiance to the foe, 
 
 "Blaze with your serried columns!" - no, no, no. 
 
 In ancient Athens law and custom chid 
 
 Bean-shooters aye at owls who lived forbid. 
 
 The bird of wisdom, courage and good cheer 
 
 Inspired the populace with religious fear, 
 
 But they like moderns had diviners then, 
 
 To take full charge of all state secrets, men 
 
 Forever on the hatch and brood, you know 
 
 The nidification of Newspaper Row. 
 
 But what the law forbade in Athens to 
 
 Those same Owls Nests, you likewise mustn t do. 
 
 Hunt every bird except the sacred fowl, 
 
 But spare the home and haunt of Inky Owl! 
 
 He has a curious habit, by the way 
 
 Not unobserved, of turning night to day. 
 
 Nor can he give old Breton s reason dark 
 
 For playing owl, who had been bred a lark. 
 
126 J&emoriat Volume 
 
 He rises not, nor singeth in the dawn, 
 
 But goes to bed, then, till the light is gone; 
 
 And in his dreams he hopes to get redress 
 
 For fancied wrongs by vengeance of the press. 
 
 His midnight sun is the electric ray, 
 
 Whose glary globe usurps the lamp of day. 
 
 And long ere sunrise news to him will come 
 
 From every capital in Christendom. 
 
 For all the world now being strung with wire, 
 
 He plays upon the earth as on a lyre; 
 
 The politician tells his tale of woe, 
 
 To him the merchant and stock-broker go; 
 
 In short, he sits the monarch of the sphere 
 
 Within his den, a Dionysius Ear. 
 
 All men by habit, whether bond or free, 
 
 Seek to propitiate the powers that be; 
 
 And those who rule men s thoughts at every hour 
 
 May justly claim to be the ruling power, 
 
 Sovereign in all things here from sea to sea, 
 
 Whoever holds the nominal sovereignty. 
 
 We live beneath a government of laws; 
 
 We did so once, or thought we did because 
 
 Emancipation then had not yet come 
 
 To us poor serfs of mere newspaperdom. 
 
 But all things now are wound up, bound to go 
 
 By those great lights, world-rulers here below, 
 
 Calling themselves a "World," a "Sun," or "Star." 
 
 They show what ulcers our great cities are. 
 
 "Behold, my son," said the great Oxenstern, 
 
 "How little wisdom here will serve your turn." 
 
 Behold, I say, the body politic, 
 
 The mischief and the ills whereof tis sick. 
 
of ^H atoar 127 
 
 Two parties always who bestow nicknames, 
 
 And what one praises still the other blames. 
 
 But all state doctors do is a stale trick 
 
 To feel the pulse, and have the patient stick 
 
 The tongue out, while they go with solemn face 
 
 About to "skin and film the ulcerous place." 
 
 For truth compels the judgment if severe, 
 
 There is no soundness and no health is here. 
 
 And this we say in spite of the hard task 
 
 Compelling men to wear a smiling mask. 
 
 For all professional men, in what they do, 
 
 Must have the hypocrisy of their talents too; 
 
 And every other man whom they shall meet 
 
 Lives by his art and practises deceit. 
 
 To learn a trade meant once a first degree 
 
 Taken in that which was a "mystery." 
 
 And when his long apprenticeship was o er, 
 
 He faced the world, then, as a traveling "jour." 
 
 And what this meant, read "Wilhelm Meister," see 
 
 Of human culture the epitome. 
 
 And if he really were a man of parts, 
 
 Twas not from college then his M. A. starts. 
 
 They give not mastery howsoe er one rates 
 
 The worth of titles or of doctorates. 
 
 The man alone can crown himself with dower 
 
 And mastery of knowledge, which is power. 
 
 The locomotive and the battle-ship 
 
 Built by the man who has not lost his grip 
 
 Prove him a master, but had Caesar stept 
 
 Aboard the Kearsarge, he had smiled or wept 
 
 To know that he knew nothing of its parts, 
 
 And therefore not a master of the arts. 
 
128 emorial Bolume 
 
 To him it were a marvel or a toy, 
 
 As much as any wonder to a boy. 
 
 Yet to-day s miracle by to-morrow s grace 
 
 Becomes its comment and its commonplace; 
 
 Since the last birth of human hopes and fears 
 
 In the long process of the patient years, 
 
 Through evolution comes by slow degrees, 
 
 Hence the true doctorates and the masteries; 
 
 And hence proceeds at providential pace 
 
 The education of the human race. 
 
 Short-sighted mortals who will never see 
 
 That all things bear proportion and degree; 
 
 And that no man or nation s fit to take 
 
 A foremost place till tutored by the stake 
 
 That all men strive for, and which e en defies 
 
 All efforts but the best to win the prize. 
 
 Who gives the child a homestead or a farm 
 
 While yet the rattle has a power to charm? 
 
 And would you give the electorate to them 
 
 Who have not learned yet tyranny to stem? 
 
 Or the last gift of human freedom throw 
 
 Like a mere bawbee to those babies, lo, 
 
 (So far as knowledge and as self-control 
 
 Direct their efforts yet to Freedom s goal), 
 
 Capricious, treacherous, ignorant, savage, wild, 
 
 Whom Kipling called "half-savage and half-child." 
 
 Men are but children yet and savages, 
 
 Since they believe what the newspaper says! 
 
 Its writers are the puppets on its wires; 
 
 Its readers, oh, in purgatorial fires, 
 
 Go purge your souls, and if a spot remains, 
 
 Scour with the fuller s earth of busy pains 
 
of ^otm afcar 129 
 
 In better reading, purer knowledge, there, 
 
 Go bathe in rivers of auroral air, 
 
 And make your minds, as Thoreau said of books, 
 
 "A thoroughfare for the Parnassian brooks." 
 
 The soul that like a distant world or star 
 
 Sees not the plague-spots that great cities are 
 
 Escapes contagion and all sordidness. 
 
 Give me the country, then, and I ll not this 
 
 Greenwood exchange for ugly chimney-pots, 
 
 A brick-and-mortar wilderness for spots 
 
 Of greenary mid the Sabbath of the hills. 
 
 There the cloud angels come and often lean 
 
 O er mountain galleries to admire the scene. 
 
 There in the shade by silver-footed rills 
 
 His pitcher at the fountain eke he fills; 
 
 That leaps to glory in the common air 
 
 Of cities cooled and freshened in the glare; 
 
 4 And only they who in sad cities dwell 
 
 Are of the green trees fully sensible." 
 
 They in a hundred gracious ways recall 
 
 To mind the Spirit that is over all, 
 
 And in the law of limitation set 
 
 On ways of mortal men escaped the net 
 
 Into the walks of Universal mind, 
 
 We feel that they are exiles from their kind, 
 
 And in our sadness they are sad as men s 
 
 Souls in our urban fellow-citizens 
 
 Pining in cities for the sylvan grot 
 
 Where solitude is heaven, and man is not, 
 
 A grove, a fountain and a shady spot: 
 
 These in Homeric landscape found are well 
 
 Composed in ancient meads of asphodel. 
 
130 Hemorial Volume 
 
 Until you find such you have never found 
 
 What earth was made for, nor the mountains 
 
 round 
 
 About Jerusalem, still you settled there 
 And were a denizen of the upper air, 
 You could not be, for all your thoughts in coffer 
 The old Greek nature s attic philosopher; 
 No Plato in the grove of Academe, 
 Discoursing on the loftiest human theme, 
 Nor learned rabbi with your ephod on 
 For temple service to King Solomon. 
 But then, one need not cross the seas to find 
 Jerusalem, its towers and temples shined 
 To Thanatopsis bard in old Berkshire, 
 As poet of the superior atmosphere. 
 His bardship proved when he had given tongue 
 To Greylock and the hills he lived among, 
 And Wordsworth also showed by precept, and 
 His life among the hills of Westmoreland, 
 That man alone, aloof from power and pelf, 
 Can be a king and priest unto himself. 
 Tis my persuasion and belief, not dim, 
 Though some would call it prejudice or whim, 
 That no profoundly meditative mind, 
 No philosophic spirit great or kind, 
 Can live in the highly carburetted air 
 Of modern cities with their gloom and glare, 
 And all their noise-producing ways and means, 
 Insomnia, madness, mops and magazines! 
 For solitude, the soul s incessant prayer 
 And nourisher of greatness is not there; 
 But feverish haste, and all that Arnold rhymes 
 With "the sick hurry of these modern times." 
 
of Stoftn Jbatoarp 131 
 
 Cities are made for those who buy and sell, 
 But for the finer spirits, they are, well, 
 No poet ever lived who did not own 
 He loved the country for itself alone. 
 And no great man or statesman from the days 
 Of Washington to Webster, Garfield, Hayes, 
 But sought and found, secure in country life 
 A home and haven from politician s strife. 
 
 Go seek the fountain head and find the spring 
 
 Of grandeur in the glory-hidden thing 
 
 Of what Webster was; trace whereso allied 
 
 The stormy springs of passion, power and pride 
 
 To their first origin in the far-off years, 
 
 The misty mountain top of hopes and fears 
 
 That saw the morning red of his Desire 
 
 In Liberty s blown rose as rash as fire 
 
 An ardent spirit held in check by law, 
 
 The border mystery and religious awe 
 
 Of the unseen and greater universe; 
 
 And eke Imagination s natural nurse, 
 
 His fatherland whose features bold and stern 
 
 Impressed the lesson which he had to learn 
 
 Of temperance, patience, and of hard work graced 
 
 With bars of sweat before all virtue placed; 
 
 And back of all the goodness that sunshined 
 
 The region of the heart, and bore in mind 
 
 A father s blessing, and the mother s grace 
 
 Of sweet religion in a homebred face, 
 
 And e en the church yard where had she not lain, 
 
 He might have toiled up glory s path in vain: 
 
 Why further seek when all that is most dear 
 
 In love of country and of kind is here? 
 
132 Memorial Volume 
 
 Behold the secret spring and fountain head 
 
 Of glory in the world of greatness led. 
 
 Behold the eyrie, cradle, dear home nest 
 
 Of eaglet caught in this wild region, free! 
 
 The Genius of Republican Liberty, 
 
 From the first hour in which the Boy awoke, 
 
 Grew like a solitary pasture oak, 
 
 Which, when the stormy South blew up revolt, 
 
 Defied the tempest and the thunderbolt; 
 
 And in all weathers with a free consent 
 
 Sheltered the Union Arms his royal tent. 
 
 Ah! what a man he was to the whole world known, 
 
 Who on the height of great occasion shone! 
 
 He showed his breeding when the ancestral stock 
 Of virtues came out strong on Plymouth Rock. 
 And who that heard him, ever can or will 
 Forget the orator of Bunker Hill? 
 He spoke for "liberty throughout the globe," 
 And in a pause of wonder from the rack 
 Men heard the monument behind his back 
 Reverberate "liberty throughout the globe!" 
 The height of eloquence, the true sublime 
 Was reached by him, then, in that noble chime 
 Of thought and feeling, figure, mien and voice, 
 And the imperial liberty of choice, 
 Which made those words, "I am an American" 
 Immortal on the lips of this great man. 
 He loved his country as the Seamless One, 
 And had such horror of division, 
 That in his agony he cried out, "O! 
 Secession, Sir! but where am I to go?" 
 
of on J>afcar 133 
 
 Must he, too, fall, chief pillar of the state 
 
 Who bore and suffered all, but could not hate 
 
 The little men who girded so at thee, 
 
 While others laid the axe at root of tree 
 
 Of his ambition honorably great, - 
 
 Nobly to serve and save the falling state. 
 
 Say thy last prayer on earth! was t not for her 
 
 Who cast him off, and to the sepulchre 
 
 Sent all thy hopes and thee! alack, astart, 
 
 Then burst the fibres of his mighty heart, 
 
 And vailing his proud top, with darkening frown 
 
 The lone majestic oak came thundering down 
 
 With widespread ruin on the earth to lie, 
 
 While friend and neighbor stood with weeping eye: 
 
 "The world without you in this awful hour 
 
 Feels lonesome, void of glory and of power." 
 
 Without a wish to wander or to roam, 
 
 He loved his country, but indeed his home, 
 
 His home was in the hills from whence he came 
 
 To fill the land with his o ershadowing fame. 
 
 Cities do well to honor the Great Man; 
 
 They do themselves proud as they will and can 
 
 To lift the column, statue, fountain where 
 
 His virtue loftiest in the public square 
 
 Leapt in the plentitude of golden hours 
 
 When men first took the measure of his powers. 
 
134 Memorial Volume 
 
 ENVOI 
 
 The memory of my boyhood would not be 
 
 The same it is to country or to me 
 
 If Daniel Webster s life and light had failed 
 
 Or on my youth s horizon had not sailed, 
 
 That star of the first magnitude. No doubt 
 
 That a great light went down, but went not out. 
 
 And this the doctrine as a gleam in gloom 
 
 I gather from the legend on his tomb : 
 
 Is nothing greater in the universe 
 
 Than the vast soul of man; and let this verse, 
 
 Though cracked and warped as ancient tombstones 
 
 lean, 
 
 Remember to the world what I have seen, 
 Who saw the century s majestic pose 
 Of greatness in this man; and to his foes 
 Men said who saw, how gloomed he, overbrowed ! 
 His looks were blacker than a thundercloud. 
 And all knew when his thunderbolts were hurled; 
 His was our country s voice against the world ! 
 But when the storm passed by, again he smiled, 
 Jovial and friendly as old ocean s child. 
 He more than fame or eloquence did prize 
 His oxen s honest, shining, great, brown eyes. 
 And he had told you if he cared to rate 
 The smug hypocrisy of church and state, 
 That he preferred, with lettered ease and calm, 
 The independent life of home and farm 
 To all the fuss of glory s greatest hour, 
 The pride and pomp and circumstance of power; 
 An ode of Horace to the helm of state, 
 The woodland walk to seeming wise and great, 
 
of ffofrn abarp 135 
 
 And seeking still urbanity, to find 
 
 He had not disafforested his mind, 
 
 But with a heart unspoiled by place and power, 
 
 He kept the freshness of his childhood s hour, 
 
 And at the limit of the latest day, 
 
 Could place his hand upon his heart and say, 
 
 He had not purposed wrong at eve or morn 
 
 To any man or child or woman born; 
 
 But loved his neighbor while he turned the sod, 
 
 And prizing all the handiwork of God, 
 
 He loved his country first, so that we won 
 
 True self-respect, and heard the glad "well done!" 
 
 From that internal witness of the role 
 
 Which none can bribe: O just and manly soul, 
 
 Who, knowing life in palace and in cot, 
 
 The state of grandeur and the poor man s lot, 
 
 Before all Captains of the wandering foam, 
 
 Preferred to live and be himself at home; 
 
 And like that other still of ancient date, 
 
 Who could not bear to be held second-rate, 
 
 The would-be Caesar of his leafy Rome, 
 
 Had but one wish before he turned to loam 
 
 To play the man-child to the manor born, 
 
 To shave the lawn or shock the ripened corn; 
 
 And far from human wickedness and strife, 
 
 In that calm vale where he began his life, 
 
 To end his days, and at the last to creep 
 
 To Mother Earth where his forefathers sleep. 
 
136 jttemorial Bolumc 
 
 THE MEMORY OF BURNS 
 
 BORN JANUARY 25, 1759 
 
 O sovran poet of the heart! 
 
 Oft as thy natal day returns, 
 With votive wreath of song and art 
 
 We crown the bust of Robert Burns. 
 
 World-wearied, worn and wandering soul 
 Which found no resting-place on earth, 
 
 Sit now, and crown the flowing bowl, 
 The guest of wit and love and mirth. 
 
 And while the crackling fagots blaze, 
 
 Amid the revel and the roar, 
 In the loud chorus of his praise, 
 
 What is one note the less or more? 
 
 As one oppressed with gratitude 
 
 Steals noteless from among the crowd, 
 
 And at some shrine remote and rude 
 Chants in a voice more deep than loud: 
 
 passion-breathing soul sublime! 
 Thou bard of nature and of truth; 
 
 1 to my patron saint in rhyme 
 
 Would breathe the vow I made in youth, 
 
 It may be wrong, at least not wise 
 
 In one no poet by profession, 
 To strip himself of all disguise, 
 
 And show the soul s face in confession. 
 
of toH afcar 137 
 
 But this I know, that none yet can 
 From hope s high reach to low despair 
 
 Encompass all the notes of man 
 Like bards of Avon and of Ayr. 
 
 I quit the temple where I hear 
 
 The loud ^Eschylian thunders roll; 
 
 Macbeth, The Tempest, Hamlet, Lear, 
 But gie s your fist, my ploughman-soul. 
 
 I owe thee more than child or wife, 
 Or parents in the common role; 
 
 For they at most but gave me life, 
 But thou thou gavest me a soul; 
 
 Since when a tuneless clod of clay, 
 My nature wrapt in wintry gloom, 
 
 Beneath thy genius fervid ray 
 Awoke and burgeoned into bloom. 
 
 For thou hast broken to me bread 
 
 For which the starved heart inly pines; 
 
 Raised from the darkness of the dead 
 
 To cheerful warmth and light that shines. 
 
 With my large liberty content 
 
 To think and feel and dare to act, 
 
 I thank thee for enfranchisement, 
 My poet most in deed and fact; 
 
 Thou wast to me a warm spring day, 
 And all my roots of being stirred, 
 
 As when upon the budding spray 
 One hears the voice of singing bird. 
 
138 lemotial Bolume 
 
 My soul experienced that new birth 
 Of springtime in the heart which lives, 
 
 When the twin-born of love and mirth 
 A new and true expression gives. 
 
 As lofty mountains capped with snows 
 Surround some valley green with spring, 
 
 So loftiest bards are unto those 
 Who dwell in thy enchanted ring. 
 
 Can I forget the pleasant time 
 
 Which love and genius made me know? 
 Thy many flowers of happy rhyme, 
 
 Thy brookside songs that come and go. 
 
 Still hummed thy verses singing noise, 
 While far thy deeper numbers roll; 
 
 And every passion found a voice 
 That agitates the human soul. 
 
 Far in my heart thy thrilling song 
 Was borne and carried ecstasy; 
 
 And in the rush of feeling strong, 
 I felt the god of poesy. 
 
 For nothing heavy, dull or dutch 
 Bore ever yet thy name or brand; 
 
 In the bold freedom of thy touch 
 I recognized the master hand. 
 
 A hand indeed to wake the lyre, 
 
 The sweetest, wildest, weirdest strain! 
 
 The lover s passion sigh of fire, 
 The patriot ardor not in vain. 
 
of fof abar 139 
 
 for that hour when first I met 
 My poet on the banks of Ayr! 
 
 1 saw the rainbow song there set 
 
 In his dark heaven of grief and care. 
 
 And all earth s joy, mirth s mighty reel 
 Of music made in halls and bowers, 
 
 Was mine when first thou mad st me feel 
 The consciousness of nobler powers. 
 
 So all my faculties in chime 
 
 Rang out thy music sweet and low; 
 
 Transplanted was thy flower of rhyme 
 And in my border set to grow. 
 
 To think how funny was the rhyme! 
 
 What humor sly in "Posie Nancy;" 
 In Tarn O Shanter what sublime 
 
 Imagination, wit and fancy. 
 
 What pathos is in "Auld Lang Syne!" 
 
 In Scots Wha Hae," what rage of battle; 
 
 6 Go fetch to me a pint of wine," 
 
 He bids his love while trumpets rattle. 
 
 In every land, in every clime, 
 
 Who does not meet his " Bonnie Lassie?" 
 But who can weave the bonny rhyme, 
 
 And pledge her so in silver tassie? 
 
 There is no lack of beauties bright 
 In every rank and place and station; 
 
 We view them like the stars by night - 
 The fairer part of all creation. 
 
140 jftemorial Volume 
 
 And for our lovers, O, alas ! 
 
 They are not Burns but this between us - 
 Out of a plain Scotch homely lass, 
 
 To make a goddess bright as Venus ! 
 
 Oh, who can tell the wondrous charms 
 Of which his magic verse is mother? 
 
 I could have rushed into his arms, 
 And hugged the poet for a brother. 
 
 Twas not his poetry though sweet 
 
 Which made all humankind to love him; 
 
 Twas the great heart that kindly beat 
 In every verse that doth approve him. 
 
 The Daisy and the Mousie s lot 
 In those immortal strains relenting 
 
 He pitied them because forgot 
 
 By the cold world and unrepenting. 
 
 The very Deil he dared to bail 
 
 From hell past hope to see salvation; 
 
 But cruel bigots felt the hail 
 
 Of his hot scorn and indignation. 
 
 He for a motto might have worn 
 The Scottish thistle on his crest; 
 
 Which wounds the hand against it borne, 
 Though downy plumes the seeds invest. 
 
 For he was tender, wise and witty, 
 Though rough and hard to wage the battle; 
 
 His songs were arrows tipped with pity, 
 His satires hailstones keen that rattle. 
 
of Stofw Jbatoarp 
 
 The Scottish lion ill at ease 
 
 In waging war with gnats and flies, 
 Or bit by theologic fleas, 
 
 Roared out against his enemies. 
 
 Ignoble contest! fire or flood, 
 
 Or any lion in your path, 
 Were better met than the chafed blood 
 
 Of royal poet in his wrath. 
 
 But set him to his proper theme, 
 To celebrate the loves and graces, 
 
 Which bright as angels in a dream 
 Unveil their sweet and serious faces. 
 
 Then inspirations came like light, 
 Words full of wisdom and of wit; 
 
 And every line he did indite, 
 He put his whole soul into it. 
 
 The hearts of others he can move 
 Because his own is utter human; 
 
 He writes in friendship and in love, 
 The apotheosis of woman. 
 
 His songs how simple are in form, 
 Pure as Horatian odes in marble; 
 
 By his Pygmalion art made warm 
 Until the verses blush and warble. 
 
 4 The Muse nae poet ever f and her, 
 Till by himsel he learned to wander 
 
 Adown some trottin burn s meander, 
 And nae think lang: " 
 
142 temorial Volume 
 
 And this is all of Burns s art; 
 
 The simple gift of inspiration; 
 His tones are of the human heart 
 
 Without regard to rank or station. 
 
 A breath of nature blows and shakes 
 
 The heather-bells in breezy verse; 
 The force of poverty he breaks 
 
 With song, and lightens labor s curse. 
 
 Yet best in social converse beamed 
 
 His native soul of inborn worth; 
 How glowed his dark eyes then, or gleamed 
 
 Auroral flashes of deep mirth! 
 
 Of mirth alas, of melancholy, 
 For smiles and tears will often rest 
 
 Beneath the eyelids which are wholly 
 Fed from twin founts within the breast. 
 
 And these when they exceed in measure, 
 Must cause the springs to overflow; 
 
 i Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 
 Thrill ever deepest notes of woe." 
 
 Sad hearts whose chords were strained too much 
 Under the weight of hopes and fears; 
 
 Their angels rarely come to touch 
 The springs of laughter and of tears. 
 
 Then blame not him because he took 
 Large draughts of pleasure and of pain; 
 
 O er life s exhausted fount he shook 
 
 His daring wings and soared again: 
 
of S^&tt atoarp 143 
 
 To that high seat and sun of love 
 Which is of hearts the sacred glow: 
 
 The mystic Rose which blooms above 
 His evergreen of song below. 
 
 LOVE AND SHAME 
 
 Fair Love and Virtue handed as they went, 
 
 And, tripping light, 
 Helped one another up the steep ascent 
 
 To heaven s height. 
 They met another pair 
 
 As on they came. 
 The crimson dress beside the dark stole 
 
 Meant Love and Shame. 
 Over their left a trailing meteor slid, 
 
 An omen ill; 
 But two bright stars where Love and Virtue stood 
 
 Shone o er the hill. 
 
 MY LAMP 
 
 The maid who every day refills my lamp, 
 
 And trims the wick, and wipes the chimney bright, 
 Assists my genius by the shining light 
 
 Which helps it shine and burn away the damp 
 Of dulness, fog, low spirits, lack of sun 
 My armor-bearer gainst Oblivion. 
 
144 emorial Bolume 
 
 RHYTHM 
 
 The on-rolled waves unto the shore 
 Break in a falling measured roar. 
 Winds to the wood with accent strong 
 Chant loud their dithyrambic song. 
 And, taught by science how to hear, 
 The trained physician by his ear 
 Detects in beating of the heart 
 The rhythm of poetic art. 
 
 TO J. R. L. 
 
 To one who, on his charger fine, 
 Sits like a warrior in array, 
 A subaltern who stands in line, 
 Salutes the general on his way; 
 And with the most respectful air 
 Which duty, loyalty, and truth 
 Enjoin on him who owes what fair 
 Largess of beauty flung to youth! 
 Distinguished in the courtly throng, 
 I touch my hat to him, and say, 
 That from the simplest gift of song 
 He will not turn in scorn away. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE S HEART 
 
 Not in the splendid pageants of the Muse 
 
 Which fill the temple of dramatic art 
 Where all the world pay homage as their dues 
 
 Do we approach the home of Shakespeare s Heart; 
 
 That sacred thing is domiciled apart. 
 
of ^tt atoar 145 
 
 Hence in a chapel more remote and dim, 
 
 Where the sad music never seems to vary, 
 There is enshrined the very heart of him, 
 
 And there indeed his bosom s sanctuary. 
 But that low vault that holds the poet s dust, 
 
 Protected by the curse that o er it flings 
 The awful shield which no man dares to thrust, 
 
 Is not more sacred than this Heart with wings: 
 Those "sugared sonnets" he hath lately penned 
 Unto his mistress and his noble friend. 
 
 Approach who may with awful reverence 
 The Rose of Beauty in the dew of Youth 
 
 Gnawed by the canker worm the circumstance 
 That leads directly to the door of truth: 
 Have pity ye who gaze, pity and ruth! 
 
 Remember well it was no vulgar hind 
 Whose heart was bored by secret torturing ills 
 
 But his conjoint with that imperial Mind 
 Born to the purple, who so grandly fills 
 
 The highest throne of greatness to mankind. 
 It is a spectacle that well might move 
 
 Fresh wonder in all hearts and through all time: 
 Transcendent genius and transcendent love 
 
 With sorrow linked in everlasting rhyme. 
 He wrote this tragedy and played it true; 
 
 His morning sun was darkened by eclipse; 
 His heart was bursting in the Rose he drew, 
 
 Clove to the depths in Love s Apocalypse! 
 
 In lofty firmament no meteor slips, 
 No bright star fallen from the height of heaven 
 
 But some life-stream is poured o er crimson lips, 
 And ruin s ploughshare through a soul is driven: 
 
146 Memorial 
 
 But such a soul and such a heart, O Heaven! 
 
 Broken in breaking of "a two-fold truth" 
 Not Christ s forgiveness, nor his mercy even, 
 
 Surpasses thine in tenderness and ruth. 
 He but forgave his foes, but thou thy friend, 
 In lines of love and sorrow without end. 
 
 BYRON 
 
 "THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS is A GENTLEMAN." 
 
 But when I met him it was years ago 
 
 Under the warm and windless hush of night 
 
 In the brown silence of a vale which was 
 
 Profound to him whom it profoundly moved 
 
 And chiefly for one great impression made 
 
 By something then and there which ever stands 
 
 Out like a promontory in the flood of years 
 
 But when I met him, as I said just now, 
 
 Being alone and innocent of ill, 
 
 I did not know him (for he went about 
 
 Assuming any shape that pleased him best). 
 
 And so I mistook him for my Lord Byron. 
 
 It happened in this wise, if that you care 
 
 To know what happened, and with circumstance. 
 
 A youth of fourteen summers, I had gone 
 
 To the village smithy, and, my errand done, 
 
 Was trudging barefoot on the homeward way, 
 
 With the plow-iron on my shoulder laid, 
 
 And as a boy will do, went shaping out 
 
 The object of my thoughts, perchance my fears, 
 
 From dim seen things and dark imaginings. 
 
 So as I walked beneath the starlight on 
 
of n abar 147 
 
 The silent trail of the old country road 
 
 Close to the chalk-line keeping on the marge 
 
 Of the black green sward, velvet to my feet, 
 
 And heard the corn grow in the silent night, 
 
 I saw the glowing swarms of bright fire-flies 
 
 Over the meadows and along the swamp, 
 
 In their mixed motions, rilling all the air 
 
 With wreathen fires, like gems, and flowers of light, 
 
 Bunches of golden bees, and gay festoons, 
 
 Rising and falling and forever crost 
 
 The marsh-fed meteors of an evening damp. 
 
 I know not why nor wherefore, whence nor how 
 
 It came about, but in that instant came 
 
 The thought of Byron and his genius which 
 
 Voluptuous as the soft-breathed summer night 
 
 Held in its dark and cloudy bosom just 
 
 Such fire-fly swarms of thought and golden braid 
 
 All glittering, and in such profusion poured 
 
 As thick as bright, and jerking streams of fire 
 
 Over the meadows of immortal song! 
 
 He was eccentric, too, as giving light 
 
 In fitful flashes, and in motion still 
 
 Like erring stars - erring yet beautiful. 
 
 Yet not his genius nor his gift of song 
 
 Impressed me so, as did that something dark, 
 
 And grave and sad the presence of a power 
 
 Demonic, as of some deep and personal force 
 
 That was to him as an overshadowing cloud, 
 
 And laid a spell on every line he wrote. 
 
 I could not fathom nor make out this child 
 
 Of genius like a cherub heavenly bright 
 
 Bright for an instant changing to a frown 
 
148 Memorial Volume 
 
 Dark and forbidding, weird and awful as 
 
 The face of Mystery in his mien and make. 
 
 For still he loved to wrap around himself 
 
 His cloak of close concealment, and to feign 
 
 And mystify his friends, by some perverse 
 
 Humor that swayed him no man can say what 
 
 The inward check and form of destiny, 
 
 The whim of genius to this wayward man 
 
 The strangeness of his nature and his fate. 
 
 I, trembling then at his dark spell of power, 
 
 And at his name a name to conjure with - 
 
 Had such an awe of him that with my thought 
 
 Came superstitious fear, and added wings 
 
 Unto my flying feet and shoulder blades 
 
 That pointing forwards fled the Evil One, 
 
 Who seemed in league with him, and really seemed 
 
 The power of darkness he personified. 
 
 For I had heard that such a power might be 
 
 Transformed to angel in his robes of light, 
 
 And granting this, what was there to prevent 
 
 The change and transformation taking place? 
 
 And his unearthly beauty, might it not 
 
 With head of cherub have the cloven foot? 
 
 So, with a great and foolish heart of fear, 
 
 I looked not backward, but with break-neck pace 
 
 Held on my course, until a sudden turn 
 
 Where the road winds around the crest of hill 
 
 Disclosed the great square chimney rising up 
 
 From orchard trees about the farm-house old, 
 
 And then the plum-tree by the garden-wall 
 
 Next to the door-yard, and the door itself, 
 
 At which I rushed with a loud-beating heart, 
 
of S^&tt Jbatoarp 149 
 
 And throwing down my burden as I passed 
 The entry, lo, the supernatural fear 
 Was loosened from my mind, and slipt away 
 As clogs from feet, or garments drop from us 
 Wearied and willing to be drowned in sleep. 
 
 ON SHELLEY S MEETING WITH LORD BYRON 
 
 They never met or met as planets twain 
 
 Conjunct though opposite, and the most benign 
 Was over him of aspect more malign, 
 A darker body and of denser grain, 
 Whose lurid light like darkness seemed to stain 
 The body of clearness of those crystal even 
 That like bright stars in baleful vapor shine. 
 Dim, weak, and watery through a comet s mane, 
 This dreadful orb, one mass of whirling flame, 
 The season s portent, prodigy and sign, 
 Vanished in smoke, and self-consumed ere long. 
 But that white star disgraced, its purer fame 
 Reconquers, and comes forth again to shine 
 Victorious and supreme in modern song. 
 
 THE GREAT TEACHER 
 
 As the awed looks of lowlanders by light 
 Of mountains in the blue that seem to soar 
 From earth to heaven at whose open door 
 
 Their cloud-capt summits hidden out of sight 
 
 Are touched with glory of the infinite, 
 
 So we, poor mortals, when we stand before 
 The gate of Immortality, adore 
 
150 Memorial Volume 
 
 His awful masque of Music and of Light. 
 How blest forever to the humble mind 
 The sage and spiritual teacher of mankind! 
 
 O, nigh to God is the age-reverend brow 
 Bearing the impress of the world unseen, 
 And, like the secret mountain-top serene, 
 
 Basking in sunshine of the eternal Now. 
 
 SHE SLEEPS 
 
 Night sleeping here in sweet composure view 
 In this white stone an Angel carved with pains; 
 She Sleeps and therefore lives you doubt my strains? 
 Awake her then, and she will speak to you. 
 
 "My pleasure is to sleep, and be a stone, 
 
 So long as sleep and infamy remain; 
 
 Not seeing, and not hearing is my gain, 
 
 Then wake me not; hush! speak in lower tone." 
 
 OUR MOTHER TONGUE 
 
 And would you know the English language, you 
 Must know its ancient homes and homesteads, all 
 Domestic manners, custom, usage, trade, 
 And man s and women s ways in hut and hall; 
 The open fire-place and the chimney-stack 
 Which anchored the old mansion to the soil; 
 Its ancient stair-case oaken, broad and strong, 
 Its winding passages, and winsome nooks, 
 Nursery and playroom, bluebeard chamber, old 
 Armor, and harness; helmet, gloves, and foils, 
 And much old furniture of a decayed 
 
of titi J>atoar 151 
 
 Gentility pattern, tarnished and outworn, 
 Sent to the store-room, general hospital 
 Of all such invalid and broken-down 
 Chattels and movables no longer used. 
 So, in our day, householders relegate 
 The ancient spinning-wheel and old hand-loom 
 To dusty attics, where a child will climb 
 To hide some secret sorrow, shame or blame, 
 And find great comfort there in poking round 
 Among old papers, hangings, and dried "y ar bs," 
 The smell of sage, and infinite debris, 
 The wrecks of time-old family heir-looms. 
 And such a home with its heir-looms is this 
 Our English tongue, the language, all 
 The many corridored, and spreading wide 
 Old mansion house, with all its lean-tos, made 
 From time to time, as need and use required. 
 And where s the child brought up in it, to-day 
 Who does not love it with a passionate love 
 Of longing and regret to miss one old 
 Familiar feature? let it be the same 
 Old homestead, falling but by slow degrees. 
 
 PROSE VS. POETRY 
 
 Prose creeps, loiters, dawdles or dashes through 
 
 A hundred ways, but always sticks to you; 
 
 Heavy and lumpish, with a soul of lead, 
 
 And drunk, or sober, less alive than dead. 
 
 The muse is dainty, her aerial flight 
 
 Balanced and beautiful, and charming light. 
 
 A bright intelligence featured like a girl 
 
 In cheek and brow, the dew-drop s mounted pearl. 
 
152 lemotial Volume 
 
 The form succinct, and with a perfect poise 
 Of motion sliding onward without noise, 
 Whether she walk or ride, run, fly, or skim 
 The earth, admired, so featly she doth swim 
 With goddess-gait the roughest ways along, 
 All men admire the easy flight of song: 
 Her graceful motions ere aloft she springs - 
 Though the bird walk, you know that she has wings. 
 
 WORD CRITICS 
 
 To those word critics, and to only them 
 Who pick a flaw in everything you write! 
 I scorn them as they scorn what can delight - 
 
 Beauty set off by some adorning gem. 
 
 Flawed are the world s crown jewels, on the stem 
 Of Honor borne to Royalty bedight 
 With robes magnificent, and dazzling light 
 
 On brows where Glory sets the diadem. 
 
 The element of language is not pure 
 
 Though plastic, as it is by poets wrought. 
 Lucky who fails not in the supreme test! 
 
 E en Dante could not wholly mend nor cure 
 Those ill words put to torture of his thought 
 He made them say, though, what he wanted, best. 
 
 THE COLD TYPES 
 
 Thou fool, beware the terrors of cold type! 
 
 Tremble and cry, spare me the terrible test! 
 
 Needs must he have high courage, soul addrest 
 To ease and manage of the smooth-lipped pipe, 
 
of tofn afoar 153 
 
 The firm and flying touch, the bold sure gripe 
 That holds the subject still in idea, lest 
 Falling below the level of his best 
 
 He should be lamed in judgment as unripe. 
 
 The public knows not, and should never know 
 How many failures go to one success. 
 But write on still, and all that labor spent, 
 
 Burn what is written; time at last will show, 
 In some great Crisis real storm and stress 
 Perfected mastery of the instrument. 
 
 A SCHOLAR S CREED 
 
 Let the gods who dispose of kingdom and crown, 
 Boss Congress and Courts in Washington town, 
 Whomsoever they please set up and pull down. 
 Be it Cleveland or Blaine, what matters to me, 
 So I hold but my tongue and keep my soul free? 
 No party-man I to bawl or to screech 
 Red-hot editorial, or congressman s speech. 
 I think what I please, read books, or hear read, 
 I smoke my cigar, sip claret, to bed, 
 But with matters of state ne er trouble my head. 
 
 SPARE THE ROD 
 
 The proud, the brave, the sensitive, the heart 
 Broken for any fault deserves some ruth; 
 
 But most the young deserve it on the part 
 
 Of all who use the pedagogic art. 
 
 Think, O ye moralists of sturdy truth, 
 
 How keen the sorrows of your own first youth! 
 
154 jftemorial 
 
 A SONNET OF SONNETS 
 
 Ego apis Matinae 
 
 More modoque 
 
 Grata carpentis thyma per laboram 
 Plurimum circa nemus uvidique 
 Tiburis ripas operosa parvus 
 
 Carmina fingo. Horace. 
 
 Well done, friend Horace. Like the booming bumble 
 bee that 
 
 Loves in wavy lines to steer 
 About his flower-loves in the garden; hear 
 The glorious reveler with his fervid hum! 
 Mark with what fine unerring instinct plumb 
 
 Down in yon tuberose he drops him sheer 
 
 Weighted with sweetness that s your sonnetteer! 
 I love the honeycomb, but, Horace, come, 
 Your odes are sweeter, labored as you say. 
 Yet where s the poet worthy of the name, 
 
 That does not sing as doth the lark in flight? 
 Pleasing his toil as bees in flowery May 
 From music s self he sucks the soul out! Aim 
 
 Bee-like at beauty, pleasure, sweetness, light. 
 
 HELEN OF TROY 
 
 Was this the form, was this the face 
 That set the ancient world in flames, 
 That gave us Homer s song and race 
 Of heroes with undying fames? 
 Quenched is that beautiful and bright 
 Firebrand of the gods in night. 
 
of Ww ^afcar 155 
 
 But there are Helens yet whose faces 
 Can fire a world with huge alarms; 
 So absolute in all their graces, 
 That at the sight we fly to arms. 
 Aye, beauty conquers, but we go 
 Toward, not from, the fatal foe. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN 
 
 Good night! good night! if here below, 
 Night can be good not having thee. 
 Say not Good night! for well you know 
 Night is not good to me. 
 
 I go through thick and stormy weather, 
 Drawn by one star thy window light; 
 Two hearts that beat as one together 
 Need not to say, Good night! 
 
 The night may have her moon and stars, 
 Tis drear and dark without thy light; 
 And aching hearts through prison-bars 
 In exile sigh, Good night. 
 
 Pronounce it not! I banish would 
 That phrase which banishes delight. 
 To have the nights both sweet and good 
 Say not, my love, Good night! 
 
156 jflemotriat 
 
 HOARFROST 
 
 FROM THE INFERNO, CANTO xxiv, v. 1-15 
 
 When Youth s fresh hue to the year s temples wan 
 Comes by the Sun s locks tempered in the Urn, 
 And the nights shorten as the days stretch on; 
 
 When on the ground the Hoarfrost s pen doth yearn 
 To copy there his dazzling sister s bright 
 Image, but the distempered nib will turn, 
 
 The countryman whom forage faileth quite 
 Gets up and sees the all o er-whitened plains; 
 Whereat he slaps him on the thigh outright, 
 
 Goes in the house, and up and down complains 
 Like the poor wretch who loseth heart of grace; 
 Then out he goes again, and hope regains 
 
 Seeing the world doth wear a changed face 
 
 From the last hour, and takes his shepherd s crook, 
 And drives the flock forth to their feeding-place. 
 
 IN HAREWOOD 
 
 The beautiful world is mine to-day, 
 
 Is mine to-day, though half I bring 
 To the feast of soul the winsome lay, 
 
 The song I sing. 
 
 For my heart is full as a full-boughed tree, 
 A full-boughed tree of singing birds; 
 
 And the fluttered wings of the melody 
 Are winged words. 
 
 Afar mid the flames of silent spires, 
 
 Of silent spires, in sunny grove, 
 Where the footpath winds through ruined choirs, 
 
 I love to rove. 
 
of ^oftn Jbatoarp 157 
 
 Down through the Capitol vista shown, 
 
 The vista shown, I see arise 
 The great white dome like a bubble blown 
 
 In the winter skies. 
 
 We re proud of it as the hearth and home 
 The hearth and home of a people free; 
 But what is that to the circling dome 
 That s over me? 
 
 That the supreme good is the supreme fair, 
 The supreme fair, is sooth to say; 
 
 And all tuned hearts to the self-same air 
 Are set to-day. 
 
 For the bridegroom earth with soft curves true, 
 With soft curves true, appears to cling 
 
 To his radiant bride the sky so blue 
 To the horizon s ring. 
 
 Tis the symbol fair of a marriage rare, 
 A marriage rare with due increase; 
 
 And the golden wedding bells in air 
 Ring love and peace. 
 
 CALAMITY 
 
 Alone and sleeping at the dead of night, 
 Within my chamber IT approached me near; 
 But if I rose and shivered with affright 
 Or lay quite still in drench of mortal fear, 
 I cannot tell though nothing did appear. 
 Anon I heard ten thousand spirits sigh 
 Upon a passing wind and from the strand 
 I heard lift up the water-dragons cry. 
 
158 temotiai Volume 
 
 They raise their wings and sink upon the land; 
 They fall to rise, and toiling evermore, 
 Come on again with heavier steps and slower 
 Against the house that builded is on sand. 
 The rattling window frames and crazy door 
 Shake with the surge and fear around doth spread 
 Then swoop the dragons with a falling roar 
 And pile the world of waters overhead. 
 
 ROCK CREEK 
 
 Beyond the limits of the city seen 
 
 But scarcely heard within the twilight hush 
 Of lowering woods above the hermit thrush 
 The guardian spirit of the sylvan scene, 
 Where at the bottom of a deep ravine, 
 Swollen by autumn rains the river s rush 
 Is heard at times, and on its banks the lush 
 Lobelia grows, and fallen tree trunks lean: 
 Here on a day when sunshine seems to love 
 Soft bars of cloud in air s delicious blue 
 And making drunk the earth October s wine 
 Stored in the golden vault is soaking through 
 The azure world of hope and heaven above, 
 I saw the face of my companion shine. 
 
 AMERICA 
 
 These vast activities which success doth crown 
 In the mad race for riches and renown 
 I, sitting to look on, like not the greed, 
 But grumble not because I don t succeed. 
 
of W>n atoar 159 
 
 FLORIDA 
 
 Come, let us go unto the land of flowers ! 
 The land of old romance and freshest truth, 
 Land of the Fountain of perpetual youth! 
 Flora and Maytime to the birds in bowers, 
 Land of the orange and the citron s bloom, 
 Of halcyon airs and seas, and faint perfume, 
 The zone of pleasure and the rosy hours. 
 
 YORKTOWN 
 
 OCTOBER 19, 1781 
 
 J T was late October; the chill that blights 
 In all autumnal shades and lights 
 (The long deserted streets o nights) 
 Was heavy and raw with the river mist 
 Which overhung the town as whist 
 As a mouldering City of the Dead, 
 When on his beat a watchman said, 
 
 "Past twal o clock 
 And Gornwallis ees daken!" 
 
 Ah! when that sound the stillness broke 
 It was as if the dead awoke; 
 The sleeping folk rose up amazed 
 And out of windows looking dazed 
 Men heard the news, and saw the gleam 
 As if a spirit passed in dream: 
 
 Tast twal o clock 
 And Cornwallis is taken!" 
 
160 Memorial Volume 
 
 4 Light up! Light up!" the people said, 
 And let us paint the old town red! 
 Night lanterns glimmered thro the fog, 
 The city of Penn was all agog; 
 Old neighbors hugged each other, and 
 E en warmly shook the stranger s hand. 
 
 "Past twal o clock 
 And Gornwallis ees daken!" 
 
 Oh! what rejoicings there were then 
 Within that ancient burg of Penn! 
 What bonfires blazed! how rose the swell 
 Of dear old Independence bell, 
 "Proclaim ye LIBERTY to all 
 The inhabitants of the land withal!" 
 
 "Past twal o clock 
 And Cornwallis is taken." 
 
 Historic moment most sublime! 
 
 The turning of the tide of time, 
 
 To us, at least, as we recall, 
 
 Sons of the Revolution all, 
 
 The watchman s rattle when he said, 
 
 As on the joyful tidings sped, 
 
 Tast twal o clock 
 And Gornwallis ees daken!" 
 
 AT WASHINGTON S TOMB 
 
 A pewee makes his humble nest 
 
 Within the vault, and chasing gloom 
 
 With song and sunshine in the west 
 Day lingers in the grated tomb. 
 
of 
 
 Autumn there in robes of glory 
 Chants her solemn even-song 
 
 Harping on the old, old story 
 We have heard so oft and long. 
 
 Glory is a bonfire litten, 
 Life is very, very brief; 
 
 And its chronicle is written 
 On the sere and faded leaf. 
 
 THE RIVER OF MAY 
 
 The summer airs that softly, softly creep 
 Into our sails along the southward way, 
 Draw smooth and fair adown the River of May. 
 
 We that sit still as marble-statued Sleep, 
 
 Move with our image through the hollow deep 
 In the clear sapphire of the azured bay, 
 And scarce a word to one another say, 
 
 Fearing to break the charm the high heavens keep. 
 
 Build me a castle there on yonder steep, 
 With wide verandahs in the delicate air 
 Of jasmin odors and of orange bowers! 
 
 A dream so fair that I could almost weep 
 To see my vision melt in distance rare - 
 Like a lost romance of the Land of Flowers. 
 
 IN ARCADIA 
 
 Morning is up, and on the woods a-bloom 
 Moves in the splendor of each jeweled tear 
 Bedropt with fire to deck an Ethiop s ear, 
 
 Night slowly driven through the gorge s gloom 
 
162 temorial Bofame 
 
 Under the dark-tuft hills of piney plume. 
 
 Behold the shepherds and their loves in fear 
 
 Gathered around an old man pointing here 
 The half-effaced inscription on a tomb. 
 
 There Daphne leans upon the shoulder, mute, 
 
 Of her bowed lover with the idle lute, 
 Straining to catch the meaning, shadier, 
 
 By foreign speech that moulders to decay; 
 
 ET EGO IN ARKAD ... no more to-day - 
 "I, too, have lived in your Arcadia." 
 
 A NEW YEAR S CALL 
 
 The glorious sun was shining in the east 
 
 And through the windows of the Red Room poured 
 A flood of radiance on the festive board 
 
 Where all the world, officially, at least, 
 
 Paid their respects unto the great high priest 
 Of social politics, when coming toward 
 The guest-room, suddenly, amid the horde 
 
 Of brilliant callers, an unbidden guest! 
 
 The dark intruder came into the room, 
 
 But neither spoke nor smiled: the sunny air 
 Grew chill at his approach, and like a pall 
 
 Upon the mansion fell oppressive gloom. 
 Though not invited, yet on business there, 
 Death at the White House made his New Year s call, 
 
 VALE! 
 
 Fallen is the first and chief: 
 Oh! but our hearts are full of grief. 
 Bowed in silence, stand and wait 
 Where he lies in lofty state. 
 
of atoar 163 
 
 Who hath any words to say? 
 Grief is eloquent to-day. 
 On the door-knob put no crape, 
 But your hearts in mourning drape. 
 Death lifts up the portal bar, 
 Droop the flag and dress the car. 
 Slowly move in sad array, 
 Bring him on his last long way. 
 The veiled cities see him pass, 
 Bow their heads and cry alas! 
 Useless, useless, toll no bell, 
 He is better in fact, well. 
 Healed of all his hurts and scars, 
 Honorably discharged from wars. 
 He is sleeping, don t you see? 
 Wake him not! Oh, let him be. 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 Is it altered mood or landscape? 
 Change of time, or clime or season? 
 Brown leaves drifting on the water? 
 Shooting-stars, or infant hoarfrost 
 That s November? 
 
 Is it mist and fog prevailing? 
 White fog moving up the valley, 
 Ghost of many a coming snow-storm! 
 Great fires roaring up the chimney 
 At Thanksgiving? 
 
 O, our world is best and brightest 
 Some fine morning in November. 
 
164 lemorial Bolume 
 
 Nature gives us then a rare day! 
 Just an Indian Summer picture 
 On the easel. 
 
 Misty vales and blue vales slumber 
 In a light subdued and golden. 
 Earth is like some fair Madonna 
 Touched with suffering and mild sorrow 
 In her features. 
 
 And the days, like veiling women, 
 Come and go with noiseless footsteps, 
 Sad as heroines of Ossian, 
 Dimly shining ghosts around the 
 Graves of kindred. 
 
 Farewell, lovely apparitions! 
 Dreams of youth and love, farewell! 
 Ye, too, are but ghosts that wander 
 Round the ruins of some roof-tree 
 Fallen, perished! 
 
 Beautiful the blazing hearthstone 
 Where domestic love enshrined is! 
 Like a constant Pharos beaming 
 Is the home love in the haven 
 Of contentment. 
 
 But short-lived is human passion, 
 Brief as meteors in November! 
 Crossing loves that shine a minute, 
 Jack-o-lanterns to the traveler 
 Late in Autumn. 
 
ffioemg of ffiifrn ^atoatp 165 
 
 Lost are churches, trees and buildings 
 In the fog like politicians! 
 These are fighting over shadows, 
 While Corruption s ghost gigantic 
 Stalks the Capitol. 
 
 DAWN 
 
 Like Spring s first breath, or like the glowing, bright 
 Softness of youth, with down upon its cheek, 
 Comes the white dawn that grows a blushing streak 
 
 When Nature turns in living slumber dight 
 
 To the sun s kiss, and breathes the morning light. 
 In pasture meads the slumbering kine awake, 
 Sheep on the dewy hill-sides their short fast break, 
 
 And out-door life gets on its feet upright. 
 
 To us who live as in stone coffins sealed, 
 
 Thick walls and curtains, roofs that ward the stroke 
 
 Of glory off, the dawn is not revealed 
 Save to the early-stirring market folk. 
 Splendors of beauty earth and heaven fulfill: 
 Man s world is wrapt in swinish slumber still. 
 
 HOW STILL THE LAND! 
 
 The land, how still! how soft and fair 
 The tender, pensive, golden air! 
 What network of a shining haze 
 Envelopes earth and all her ways! 
 What dimness over all the sky 
 Like a suffused and dreamy eye! 
 
166 Memorial 
 
 What moving lights upon the flood, 
 What fallen rainbows in the wood! 
 How smooth the crag, what waters pass 
 A-twinkle in the emerald grass! 
 And lo, mid halcyon seas at rest 
 Appear what Islands of the Blest! 
 Come spirit-laden barks that bring 
 The odors of a western spring! 
 Come, with the mild south-western breeze 
 That whispers through the glowing trees; 
 Tell us of buried lore in mounds, 
 And of the happy hunting grounds, 
 Traditions of our Indian Troy 
 Devoutly held by man and boy 
 Ere telegraphs and railroads came 
 To put belief to rout and shame. 
 
 MILESTONES 
 
 Another milestone on life s journey passed, 
 
 Another year is added to the score 
 
 Of all the years that still have gone before 
 Like mountain-shadows on the pale sky cast. 
 Still I press onward to the very last, 
 
 And soon my feet will touch the solemn shore 
 
 Of Time forgotten, and the Nevermore - 
 The bodiless terror of the vague and vast. 
 
 How thrills the spirit standing on the verge 
 Of that dread ocean which we call the Unknown! 
 
 Why do we tremble at the severing surge, 
 And pace the strand until the time be flown? 
 
 Cast of! the lines not yet! I dare not urge 
 My bark adventurous on that sea alone. 
 
of Stoftn atoatp 167 
 
 A CAUCUS AT THE CAPITOL 
 
 One morning lately, in the month of June, 
 Bending alone above my customed task, 
 
 The windows open, and the world in tune, 
 And all things pleasant as a soul could ask, 
 
 I heard a sound of trouble rising there, 
 
 As if a storm were brewing in the air. 
 
 It seemed so strange in that deep-windowed niche 
 Where always reigned the spirit of repose, 
 
 As calm as any summer s morning, which 
 
 Breathed still content like a full-hearted rose, 
 
 There could be any room for care on earth, 
 
 Or any trouble there could have its birth. 
 
 But trouble was and something like a row, 
 Because some workmen on a staging there 
 
 Had clambered up, and roughly, I allow, 
 
 Gone round the caps of the great pillars where 
 
 The tribe of sparrows dwelt, and put to rout 
 
 The inmates, spoiled their nests, and cleaned them out. 
 
 Now that was reason, and sufficient cause 
 
 To hold an indignation meeting there; 
 For birds have legislatures, too, and laws. 
 
 A thousand sparrows caucusing in air, 
 Made noise enough, and, if you trust the birds, 
 They had reporters to take down their words. 
 
 To do them justice, the reporter states, 
 They undisturbed for many years had lain 
 
 In foliaged capitals, with their happy mates, 
 They held by right of eminent domain: 
 
 And of this right they made as good a show 
 
 As t other congress sitting down below. 
 
168 Memorial Volume 
 
 To be thrown out of such a handsome berth, 
 Nor gods nor men nor capitals can bear I 
 
 True to their English pluck and native worth, 
 The sparrows rallied then in caucus there, 
 
 Red hot with speeches, and with big resolves 
 
 To have their rights as long as earth revolves. 
 
 According, then, to old, time-honored ways, 
 They chose a speaker of distinguished air, 
 
 Upon whose front, as one John Milton says, 
 "Deliberation sat and public care." 
 
 He seemed a feathered Conkling by his swell, 
 
 And what he said, will your reporter tell. 
 
 1 My feathered fellow-citizens : I feel 
 
 Too deeply, far, the great and grievous wrong 
 
 We all have suffered neath the barbarous heel 
 Of our inhuman foe I put it strong. 
 
 It is a case of tyranny confest, 
 
 A public wrong how shall it be redrest? 
 
 Here have we lived, and labored for the space 
 Of many moons, and still through weal and woe 
 
 Our little colony has thrived apace, 
 
 Till now we are a nation, as you know; 
 
 And ranging freely everywhere, at will, 
 
 Have had the freedom of the city still. 
 
 And some of us, by nature apt to seize 
 A coigne of vantage, in these architraves 
 
 Have made our beds, for love of greater ease, 
 Or nobler prospect where the living waves 
 
 Of verdure flow, like joys of Paradise, 
 
 Beneath the morning and the evening skies. 
 
of ^tt abar 169 
 
 What harm do we among the acanthus leaves 
 Sitting, of these fair capitals, by day? 
 
 Who bound and capt these lofty pillowed sheaves, 
 And ranged in order due, I cannot say: 
 
 But this I know, that we were sitting here 
 
 In full conclave, for many a long-past year. 
 
 Here have we mated, lodged, and reared our young; 
 
 Here, too, have met, absorbed in graver cares; 
 And no one yet has ever said or sung 
 
 That we have interfered in men s affairs. 
 Suppose some insolent and giant hand 
 Should throw their houses down at a command. 
 
 To think what pains and trouble we have had 
 Collecting stuff for birdling s nest most meet! 
 
 Going and coming every day, as glad 
 
 To gather drift and flotsam of the street. 
 
 And now behold the wreck! Our souls are hurt 
 
 At so much broken plaster, straw and dirt. 
 
 "I move" said one, and here the speaker frowned, 
 "A board of audit to present our bills." 
 
 What more he said, was in an instant drowned 
 In general clamor of conflicting wills. 
 
 The motion was clean out of order, for 
 
 The speaker said, "My voice is still for war!" 
 
 "Unheard of ravage! ruffian spoil, and wrong: 
 
 I feel it, yes, in my prophetic heart; 
 The inhuman foe shall suffer for t ere long 
 
 An earthquake shock shall rend these walls apart; 
 And the great dome, which thunder cannot shake, 
 Shall, like an air-blown bubble, burst and break." 
 
170 Memorial Volume 
 
 The speaker sat; and such a murmur rose 
 As when the wind of autumn loudly grieves 
 
 In forest aisles, or in a gyre it goes, 
 
 And skyward casts the red and rustling leaves. 
 
 So all the birds rose up on whirring wing, 
 
 And made great noise with angry chattering. 
 
 How many a shaft of feathered wit flew round, 
 How all the air was full of winged words," 
 
 And how the bird-shot rattled on the ground 
 Of man s tyrannic folly over birds : 
 
 I have not time to tell, but merely state, 
 
 The resolve of all this loud debate. 
 
 The birds resolved what could they less than we? 
 Against the invasion of their ancient right; 
 
 Denounced the spoilers of their own roof-tree, 
 
 And claimed that when they wished to build, they 
 might. 
 
 Upholding rights in their maintenance strong 
 
 As the supporting pillars theirs so long. 
 
 6 Resolved, that we have come to build and stay 
 Within the shadow of the nation s dome; 
 
 And here in spite of what men do and say, 
 We will defend our Capitoline Rome!" 
 
 So, to repair their nests they quickly turned, 
 
 Passed the appropriation bills, and then adjourned. 
 
 How feathered wit at human weakness spurned! 
 How all the weapons of debate were turned! 
 
of W atoar 171 
 
 MAY DAY IN WASHINGTON, 1894 
 
 Somewhat abroad, a stirring air, to-day, 
 Moves in a common purpose underneath 
 Men s calm exterior like a sword in sheath, 
 
 With which it might be dangerous to play! 
 
 Tis like a dash of upflung ocean spray 
 
 Which, to shore-walker catching of his breath, 
 Tastes of the terror, too, of sudden death 
 
 Coming to meet the multitude half-way! 
 
 Industrial? Armies rising everywhere 
 Like clouds that darken the horizon wall, 
 Or birds of prey wide-hovering in the air, 
 
 Wait but the signal from their leader s call. 
 Will they, in overwhelming force prepare 
 To swoop down on the nation s Capital? 
 
 A CUP OF COFFEE 
 
 Whoever wishes to remove the ban 
 Of labor harsh and rude, or being o er 
 Fatigued with travel, is a-thirst, faint, sore, 
 
 Let him drink coffee; find thee out who can, 
 
 Thou best conserver of the strength of man ! 
 It soothes the mind, and it exhilarates more 
 The vital spirits, warming to the core 
 
 Of manhood, as electric currents ran 
 
 Throughout the frame, yet harmless all and good. 
 For no depression follows, none of that 
 Horrible sinking at the pit caved in 
 
 Through alcoholic, concentrated food. 
 The Turk cross-legged sitting on a mat 
 And sipping coffee Paradise doth win. 
 
172 memorial Bolume 
 
 LIGHT OUT OF CLOUDS 
 
 Dreary and dull and wet and cold 
 
 Was that drizzly Autumn day; 
 And men and women went about 
 
 In a spiritless sort of way. 
 And the bright leaves whereunto they clung, 
 No life nor motion had, but hung 
 
 Dejected on the spray. 
 
 But lo! a glorious light divine 
 
 In the tabernacle of the sun! 
 For the cloudy veil of heaven was rent 
 
 When the day was almost done. 
 And the meanest man who walked the street 
 Had an air majestical and meet 
 
 In the face of that shining one! 
 
 For all things noble, fair and sweet 
 Bloomed when the day was done; 
 
 The great round world appeared to rest 
 Upon a victory won: 
 
 And women looked like angels bright 
 
 In the solemn and pathetic light 
 Of the dying Autumn sun! 
 
 How many lives on earth are passed 
 
 Like a dreary autumn day! 
 Dark, clouded lives, but at the last, 
 
 There comes a golden ray. 
 Oppressed is virtue often here, 
 But in the breast the light grows clear 
 
 Of the shining heavenly way! 
 
of ^vfyn ^abarp 
 
 And they who fought the battle sore 
 
 Shall joy in victory won; 
 And they shall have a glorious rest 
 
 From toil and duty done: 
 And they shall walk the golden street, 
 And the beautiful day shall never fleet, 
 
 For God will be their sun! 
 
 SONNET-WRITING 
 
 Choose, you would say, some great and spacious 
 
 theme 
 
 Muse deep, soar high, and in your own dominion 
 Look to the end rushed on with mighty pinion: 
 
 Pursue the path as of a pure sunbeam 
 
 In darkness and the doubtfulness of dream 
 To conquest held in no man s vain opinion, 
 But in full mastery of the muse s minion, 
 
 Play with the subject, and your pledge redeem. 
 You either can, or else you cannot write; 
 Granted the power, and flash of true insight, 
 
 What Hugo said is true the power is all. 
 A friend observed, How difficult to indite 
 Your lofty poems 1" Ay, as hard to write 
 
 As tis for suns to shine, winds blow, or snows to fall." 
 
 THE PHYSICIANS TO DEATH 
 
 Along the path of convalescence, skaith 
 
 And Danger stand with daggers drawn at cast 
 Against the life in perils thick and fast. 
 
 Foes to recovery, as the wise leech saith, 
 
174 Memorial 
 
 They stand to nick the thread and stop the breath. 
 So many posts of danger being passed, 
 We thought our patient had escaped the last 
 
 Where lay in ambush the sharpshooter Death. 
 
 But Death this time, I guess we nicked him, ha! 
 We damped his powder, and we spoilt his aim; 
 If we could put that bullet in his wame 
 
 Which our friend carries, with a big hurrah 
 The land would rise with Science at our back 
 And run old i Skull and Crossbones" off the track! 
 
 I 
 THE SWORD 
 
 Kept, like the conscience, without spot or stain, 
 This blade by him, when battle erst was on, 
 Was worn, the service sword of Washington! 
 
 When first was tried its temper, he in main 
 
 Pursuit of peace and honor, was a plain 
 Virginia Colonel of militia, gone 
 To carve out empire greater than, anon, 
 
 Was that of Caesar or of Charlemagne. 
 
 And truly this imperial domain 
 
 Stretching from sea to sea, from dark to dawn, 
 
 Mother and mold of States that from the brain 
 Of Power and Wisdom sprang was a foregone 
 
 Conclusion, like that constant one beside 
 
 The Sword of Washington Liberty, his bride. 
 
of ffofrn abarp 175 
 
 II 
 THE STAFF 
 
 As once JEneas on his broad and great 
 
 Shoulders redeemed and bore from burning Troy 
 His Sire and country gods, a fearful joy, 
 
 So didst thou carry the vast orb of fate, 
 
 Stooping beneath the New World s weary weight 
 Of Revolution, half thy work, no toy, 
 But task of strain beyond Alcmaeon s boy, 
 
 Fit for main pillar of our rising state. 
 
 And well thou stayed thy steps with staff in hand, 
 Even the dear love of thy native land. 
 
 Leader, in Europe, of the great revolt, 
 Sublimely simple, as himself, let stand 
 
 The verse : From heaven he snatched the thunderbolt, 
 And eke the sceptre from the tyrant s hand. 
 
 Ill 
 ENVOI 
 
 Prometheus of the modern age! who, in the van 
 Of thunderstorms unfurling Freedom s grand 
 Banner, stood forth against the red right hand 
 Of Jove and other tyrants; since what ran 
 Wildfire he seized power held for use of man, 
 Serving the common weal: in a free land 
 
 Let the First Citizen of the New World stand, 
 Exemplar yet to all who know and can. 
 
 O stars, which lead the constellated train 
 Of our heroic age! auspicious twain! 
 
176 emorial Bolume 
 
 Benignly shed your influence on the state 
 Whose emblem is that sword and staff! O great 
 Twin brethren hail! joint authors of our fates, 
 Fulfil the destiny of the United States. 
 
 Now choked with dead, unrecognizable! 
 
 Some elemental force, then, fault or fraud 
 
 Of nature, say her paroxysmal kiss 
 
 Of violent contraries, fire and water mixed 
 
 With kneading clay, the silt and sifted ash 
 
 Of centuries accumulate, until, at length, 
 
 The superincumbent mass in dropping down 
 
 By sheer dead weight of matter, caked and baked 
 
 By frost, fire, thunder, hail and rain, and snow 
 
 Must seek an outlet, vent, or fumerole, 
 
 And then the explosion that was unforeseen ! 
 
 How like a very thief by night it came 
 
 Upon the sleeping city s ten times ten 
 
 Thousand poor souls! a multitude of slain, 
 
 Great clouds of dust, and "heaps of carcasses; 
 
 No end of corpses which they stumble over," 
 
 The men of yesterday. One enormous heave 
 
 Toppled the mountain diademed with towers, 
 
 Splitting the rocks and throwing down the walls 
 
 To this half buried city of the plain, 
 
 Like other cities the Old Testament 
 
 Has made a monument, and a mockery of; 
 
 War, famine, pestilence, earthquake where 
 
 The jackal prowls, and the lone bittern booms 
 
 By pools of water and mere rubbish heaps, 
 
 A desolation to the desert-born. 
 
 Are the Gods angry? Earth has got beyond 
 
 This question now, which Nature answers here 
 
of tofH atoar 177 
 
 By readjustment, aye by striking down 
 
 Whole provinces and populations gone; 
 
 Much as an angry lad with spurning foot 
 
 Scatters an ant-hill, or to be more just, 
 
 As a fine gentleman with a walking-stick 
 
 Goes lopping thistle-tops while sauntering on. 
 
 And after all, quoth our geologist, 
 
 What was it but an alteration slight 
 
 Of dipping strata, causing the earth s crust 
 
 To crack and yawn where seamed and riven by 
 
 Upheaval of the molten mass beneath, 
 
 Local disturbance following hard upon 
 
 Continued pressure, actual subsidence. 
 
 Whereat the astronomer, nodding sagely, thus: 
 
 "No doubt the earthquake, killing men like flies, 
 
 Came from the shifting strata, as you say. 
 
 The when and where of the tremendous fault 
 
 In the beginning, we may never know; 
 
 We can t see through the earth, but we conclude 
 
 Noting the clock of the celestial signs, 
 
 And not forgetting the great hand of fate 
 
 In turning over a new leaf within 
 
 This ancient rock-ribbed volume of the earth, 
 
 Once in a thousand years it happens so." 
 
 How much depends upon the point of view! 
 
 The ancient prophet and the modern seer, 
 
 Though differing in opinion, might agree 
 
 That knowledge is not wisdom, and that faith 
 
 In things unseen may travel far beyond 
 
 The level line of understanding, eyes 
 
 Looking straight out to see what they can see, 
 
 Orderly succession and phenomena, 
 
 But never yet were known to enter in 
 
178 jttemorial Bolume 
 
 To the prophetic soul of the wide world 
 
 Dreaming of things to come"- - nay, heaping scorn 
 
 On them that walk in dream and vision such 
 
 As John in Patmos saw, when he beheld 
 
 Death on the pale horse sitting where, of old 
 
 Uprose that lofty peak, or promontory 
 
 Opposite Trinacria, on that high plateau 
 
 Back of Messina, and commanding still 
 
 The noblest and the grandest prospect, nigh 
 
 All of Calabria, half of Sicily, 
 
 With Etna in the background, and in front 
 
 The sea sailed over by ^Eneas, erst 
 
 His legendary voyage, with the young 
 
 lulus and the household gods of Troy; 
 
 Detained at Carthage by the love-sick Queen 
 
 Until the herald of the most high Jove 
 
 Sent him to Italy, and his future home. 
 
 Such was the chosen spot, the fitting scene 
 
 And scenery of the greatest tragedy 
 
 Ever enacted on this earth, the stage 
 
 Of our Globe theatre whose mighty wings 
 
 Embrace the heavens, and also the hells, 
 
 With all the inhabitants of the underworld, 
 
 And all the hosts of Heaven in looking on. 
 
 Doubt not the stage was set, the actors cast 
 
 For all the several parts to them assigned, 
 
 As Frost, Fire, Thunder, Earth, and Sea, and Air 
 
 Which royal actors and their retinue, 
 
 Scorning the Circus Maximus as low, 
 
 The petty Roman Amphitheatre, 
 
 Its tauromachia and naufragic art 
 
 As quite contemptible, could afford to wait, 
 
 And waiting stood the signal to begin; 
 
of S^&tt atoarp 179 
 
 And when the curtain rose at five o clock 
 
 That dark December morn, together struck 
 
 The world aghast as at the stroke of doom! 
 
 "And lo, there was a great earthquake!" See! 
 
 Up yonder on the crest there looking down 
 
 The dream come true, the vision of the grim 
 
 Phantom on horseback, on the heights that crowned 
 
 Messina and the straits! Tis my belief 
 
 Death on the pale horse overlooking saw 
 
 The shore and sea one desolation, all 
 
 The crash and thunder of the roaring surge - 
 
 And in the angel s hand the Flying Roll 
 
 Bearing the seven plagues within its folds, 
 
 Having the red seal of Apocalypse, 
 
 And on its face the stamp of signet ring, 
 
 The great Justicier of heaven and earth 
 
 Proclaiming from his judgment seat the law 
 
 Of retribution, and the solemn truth 
 
 Of solidarity that forever stamps 
 
 The crime of nature as the crime of man. 
 
 This thing, if true, is most important., sir; 
 But though we cannot at this time of day 
 Presume to wrap the prophet s mantle round 
 Our shoulders, or to cut and trim our speech 
 After the bearded wisdom of the old 
 Philosophers, nor as the tragic poets did, 
 To wield the thunderbolts of angry Jove, 
 By terror and by pity thus to purge 
 The souls of men (as Aristotle saith), 
 Not to be laughed at, yet upon the stage 
 Men look and ask for the spectacular. 
 Here, not the fact, the telling circumstance, 
 
180 jftemorial Bolume 
 
 The "moving accident by field and flood" 
 
 Is most important. The receding sea 
 
 Goes backward like a runner ere he makes 
 
 His rapid headlong dash and forward stride, 
 
 Bearing in open palm the steel-clad ship 
 
 Far inland, and with loud thundering noise 
 
 Of many waters and of covering waves, 
 
 A mantle spreads voluminous and vast, 
 
 Enveloping this one world-wide distress, 
 
 Hiding the ruin and the ravage all 
 
 In human pity s cloak of sympathy. 
 
 And as one spies a lovely blooming flower 
 
 In rents of ruin, or beside a tomb, 
 
 So here one saw in a deserted square 
 
 Messina s joy, a pretty child who bore 
 
 A pet canary perched on finger-tip, 
 
 Escaped the horror of the prison house, 
 
 And destined yet to live as long, let s hope, 
 
 As Lesbia s sparrow in Catullus song! 
 
 But those who saw and heard as lookers-on 
 
 Describe the impression made on mind and eye, 
 
 By the first shock, as simultaneous with 
 
 A multitude of jolting chariots, 
 
 That starting all at once with leap and bound 
 
 Went up and down upon the rocking earth 
 
 Endlessly raving, rushing, roaring on. 
 
 In plain and simple words, the appearance was 
 
 "Like rattling chariots," even "they (that) leap 
 
 On the top of the mountains"; 
 
 "Like horsemen do they run: 
 
 They run with torches, and like lightnings shine. 
 
 They run through the city; 
 
 They run upon the wall; 
 
of S^fJH Jbatoarp 
 
 They climb up upon the houses; 
 
 They enter in at the windows, like a thief. 
 
 The earth quaketh before them, 
 
 And the heavens tremble: 
 
 The sun and the moon are darkened, 
 
 And the stars withdraw their shining." 
 
 "Your old men shall dream dreams; 
 
 Your young men shall see visions. 
 
 And I will show them (in those days), 
 
 Wonders in the heavens and in the earth; 
 
 Blood and fire, and pillars of smoke. 
 
 The sun shall be turned into darkness, 
 
 And the moon into blood, 
 
 For the day of Jehovah cometh; 
 
 It is nigh! the great and the terrible day, 
 
 A day of darkness and gloominess, 
 
 A day of clouds and thick darkness." 
 
 (Under the similitude of a mighty host, 
 
 An army of locusts invades the land.) 
 
 * *A fire devoureth before them, 
 
 And behind them a flame burneth; 
 
 The land is as the garden of Eden before them, 
 
 And behind them a desolate wilderness! 
 
 Yea, nothing escapeth them." 
 
 So far, in borrowed phrase and biblical, 
 
 In speech direct, straightforward, to the point 
 
 (Not Dante s more clean-cut and aquiline), 
 
 The prophet Joel here tells, or foretells, 
 
 The desolation of the land of Judah, 
 
 And the destruction of Jerusalem. 
 
182 Memorial 
 
 How vividly to sense and soul portrayed ! 
 
 One sees the running and the leaping of 
 
 The archers on the walls, both sees and hears 
 
 The crackling of the flame of fire devour 
 
 The stubble. And the tremendous climax, 
 
 The coming up of a numerous people and a strong, 
 
 "Like a mighty host set in battle array. 
 
 Before them the people tremble, 
 
 And all faces gather blackness." 
 
 Ancient conceptions these, and all surcharged 
 
 With the highest moral indignation. 
 
 But modern writer, must not he employ 
 
 In modern speech the symbols of his time? 
 
 No chariot races here, but somewhat else; 
 
 So, to come nearer home, and to compare 
 
 Great things with small, hark! the honking horn, 
 
 The rustling, hustling rogue, with noisy blast 
 
 Of the joy-riders tuning up their red 
 
 Devil-wagon when they give the loud ha! ha! 
 
 And with speedmania, reckless of aught else, 
 
 In crowded thoroughfare go whizzing by. 
 
 A myriad such, like demons just let loose 
 
 In stony-hearted London, or New York, 
 
 Were nothing to an earthquake, in as far s 
 
 The knock-down and the drag-out business goes. 
 
 When the four elements in battle join 
 
 The hurly-burly, earth and sea and air - 
 
 When water burns and billows roll with fire, 
 
 And overhead the heaven s great war-drum shakes 
 
 The bedlam earth as at the crack of doom, 
 
 When earth, itself unstable as the sea, 
 
 Affords no standing-room, no place of rest, 
 
of Stofnt Jtetoarp iss 
 
 City of refuge none, or sanctuary, 
 And looking to the hills whence cometh help, 
 Lo there, what leaping cataracts of fire 
 Blow all their bugles from the craggy steep! 
 
 What is mere man to question or to quell 
 
 Rebellious Nature, knowing not the pangs 
 
 Of her new birth, nor why, in her clear spring 
 
 And fountain spirit of all good and ill 
 
 So moved and troubled that we may not look 
 
 To see our Father s face, we must believe 
 
 It is there still, though hidden by the frown 
 
 Of Providence (by some mistaken for 
 
 The great doom s image), till the furrowed face 
 
 Clears up again, and all men recognize 
 
 In Him the final and efficient cause 
 
 Of whatsoever is, and what shall be. 
 
 There is one God, though at such robust faith 
 
 Men stand aghast, no Ahriman but he! 
 
 Read Jamblichus and Plato, if you will, 
 
 The Zendavesta, Koran, K ung Fu-tsze, 
 
 Bible or Bhagavad Gita, study, 
 
 "Genesis and Geology" peruse, 
 
 Admit the Gnostics to your council-board. 
 
 No Gnostic I, and no Agnostic, please; 
 
 Your ignoramus must and will ignore 
 
 All second causes Matter and the like, 
 
 Demons and demiurgs of the under-world, 
 
 And go straight back to the Original: 
 
 And if you want a guide, take Johnson, Sam, 
 
 "Path, motive, guide, original, and end." 
 
 Maybe this faith and doctrine of the old 
 
 Monotheistic and hebraic cult 
 
184 lemorial Volume 
 
 May seem too rigid and strait-laced to suit 
 The easy-going morals of our time; 
 Yet Judah s prophet held it, and for one, 
 I find it bold, consistent, and sincere; 
 Consistent with the unity of God; 
 And bold as novel, banishing, as it does, 
 To limbo of the Moon the rubbish-heaps 
 Of pagan learning and of pagan lore; 
 Mere old wives tales and silly fables they, 
 Of which one instance is, ex pede, all: 
 The Grecian poets feigned Enceladus, 
 Turned over on his side when ytna groaned! 
 But we know the whole creation groaneth, 
 And travaileth in pain together (until) now." 
 And if the little that we know be next 
 To nothing that is known of what goes on 
 Within the dark interior of the earth, 
 No need of giants, Vulcans and the rest, 
 No Titans warring with the gods of old, 
 But say at once the great earthquake came - 
 Came with the roar of a thousand battles, 
 And with the rattling fire of a million 
 Maxim guns. Suddenly, out of the earth 
 Raising up its unimaginable 
 Phantom form, shaking its gory locks at all 
 The living, and looking round on all 
 The dead, whom it persuaded then to join 
 The vast and numberless Asiatic hordes 
 Long since gone down to hades with the rest 
 Of warring demigods and tyrants old 
 Of Syracuse and Sidon, Carthage, Rome! 
 Fit shroud and burial it well beseemed 
 Calabria and the towns along the coast 
 
of ton atoar 185 
 
 Of mournful wreck and devastation where 
 Tremendous JEtna hung its funeral pall. 
 But ah! the trembling, quivering mother Earth - 
 Who can describe its billowing, not unlike 
 The ground-swell of the sea before a storm ? 
 Who dare to picture and to body forth 
 The painted horror on men s faces, fear 
 The panic fear of flying multitudes 
 Before the awful apparition seen 
 Vast as the Brocken spectre of the Harz, 
 Black as the Angel of the Pit that stood 
 Medusa-like, and with its gorgon stare 
 Chained up all motion, and with horror froze 
 The life-blood of the living, who became 
 Mere stocks and stones amid the splitting walls 
 Of ruined roof-trees, huts and palaces; 
 Comprising in one volume all that makes 
 This human document of immortal woe, 
 This latest awful tragedy of time, 
 Enrolled with Pompeii and St. Pierre, 
 The warning and the wonder of the world. 
 
 APOLOGUE 
 
 RIVER AND FOUNTAIN 
 
 One day a murmur of the swollen tide 
 Of a great River reached a Fountain s ear; 
 And like a rude and bold intrusive guest 
 Derisive said, "How little you produce!" 
 The Fountain mused a moment and replied: 
 "But men prefer me cold and crystal clear 
 To turbid torrent which is not the best 
 For conversation or for table use." 
 
186 jftemoriai Volume 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 Most ancient Night, majestic, sad, and stour, 
 The stars surround thee on thy ebon throne! 
 
 Darkness obeys thee, and the winds have power, 
 Through might and magic of thy sovereign tone. 
 
 Thy trumpet is the midnight storm whose clangor 
 Shatters the silent world and stately wood : 
 
 Thy brow s fierce light is but a passing anger 
 That leaves thee still in thy serener mood. 
 
 (FRAGMENT) 
 
 Now, when repose is at the height 
 Of Nature s peaceful pantomime, 
 The bees are murmuring in the lime: 
 * Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright!" 
 Two things exert their magic might - 
 Sweetness and light. 
 
 "Sweetness and Light"- - there is a time 
 Which, like the Autumn s mellow clime, 
 Was made for joys of soul and sight, 
 For beauty and for calm delight, 
 For pleasure of the poet s rhyme, 
 For musing on the vanished prime 
 Of Youth, which hears the distant chime 
 Of Sabbath bells in memory s light 
 Sweetness and Light. 
 
of n J>atoar 187 
 
 THE LOCUST 
 
 No, was it that? the terrible cry 
 
 Like the cry of two armies joined in the onset? 
 
 For the locust sang WAR: and it used to be said that 
 
 In war-time the locust carried that letter 
 
 Borne on his wing, a great W sheer superstition ! 
 
 But the heat might suggest the great heat of battle, 
 
 That shrill burning cry, the cry of the onset, 
 
 And something move like the crack of saltpetre 
 
 The locust s dry rattle which rolls a long volley 
 
 And gunner, with linstock at the hot muzzle, 
 
 Swabbing his gun; the red wrath of artillery, 
 
 Men dying of thirst and the fever of wounds. 
 
 But the valley is peaceful, no Monmouth is here, 
 
 Though it might have been here, had fate but so 
 
 willed it! 
 
 Here, standing for right native soil and the homestead, 
 This green furrowed vale, and blue sky beyond, 
 The storm of battle comes and lives are leaves 
 In the red whirlwind to be borne away. 
 Oh, not for this the human spirit grieves, 
 Since death to each must come some other day. 
 But all the mourning land is drowned in tears! 
 For the rent boughs loud sigh the ancestral trees, 
 Whose wound remains and does not heal for years; 
 When will these "wars abhorred of mothers" cease? 
 
188 emorial Bolume 
 
 GOING TO WAR 1862 
 
 Far out at sea and bound I know not where 
 
 The silent world is lit by many a gleam; 
 
 The sea rolls gently, and the wind sits fair, 
 
 The ship moves on a dream within a dream 
 
 So soft, so still! Its feet are shod with wool, 
 
 War s furies walking o er a world of graves: 
 
 The land s iniquity is ripe and full, 
 
 And Vengeance comes at last with sword and staves. 
 
 But what have I to do with civil jars? 
 A scholar bred to arts and used to calms, 
 Why am I here supine beneath the stars, 
 Wrapped in my soldier s cloak beside my arms? 
 
 Duty, Spartan mother stern and high! 
 Must I go forth to bleed, to fall, to die, 
 Because one altar still must blaze and burn? 
 
 Then Freedom, hail! a willing sacrifice, 
 
 1 join myself unto the martyr-crew; 
 It swells my spirit to the Roman size, 
 To think, my Country, I can die for you ! 
 I hear, and not in vain, your trumpet-call. 
 Oh, let me hear at last, the Flag still waves; 
 Let it not cover as a funeral pall 
 
 A land of cowards and of trembling slaves. 
 
 A million hearts are beating proud and soft 
 
 To the low thunder of the muffled drum; 
 
 I see the scales of Justice held aloft 
 
 In God s right hand, and know the hour is come. 
 
of ^otyn atoarp 189 
 
 The Union weighed and wanting what, a tear 
 Cause it to mount! while Afric s sighs and groans 
 Shake the firm Capitol with guilty fear 
 To topple from its base foundation stones! 
 
 The serpent and the eagle fight again; 
 The world astonished looks upon the pair 
 Writhing and striking in blind rage and pain; 
 Now Slavery falls! and circling o er his lair, 
 Our thunder-bearing bird re-plumes for flight; 
 In tempest ran the Country s awful form 
 Spurs on the heroes of the North to fight, 
 And calls them forth like snow-flakes in a storm. 
 
 If here no comet came to bud 
 
 "With trains of fire and dews of blood," 
 
 No armies fought then overhead, 
 
 No heavens grew pale, nor glowed with red 
 
 Disasters in the sun and moon, 
 
 Something there was, reported soon 
 
 In every journal of the land; 
 
 If true or not, then let it stand 
 
 Germane to the greatest crime, 
 
 Sign and wonder of the time: 
 
 A SIGN 
 
 Heavy in the woeful hour, 
 
 An arm of supernatural power 
 
 In heavens distinctly seen! 
 
 Clothed on with thunders, and the sheen 
 
 Of lightnings glistening as that white 
 
 Clothed arm in mystic, once, samite 
 
190 Memorial Volume 
 
 Over the lake which did not stir, 
 
 Brandishing Excalibur! 
 
 Not so this, except for height 
 
 Of grandeur greater by the might 
 
 Of Justice armed and raised to smite 
 
 With its "two-handed engine," keen 
 
 Splendor in the night serene. 
 
 Portentous in the night of crime, 
 
 Men saw, sublime 
 
 The gesture what the heavens mean 
 
 (Blood-red in all its length, 
 
 And menacing for strength), 
 
 A naked sword hung forth 
 
 Its handle to the north! 
 
 GOOD NEWS 
 
 It comes from the South, and the news is good, 
 
 The best was ever sung or said: 
 God s angel Cold did what it could 
 
 The Yellow Fever, Sir, is dead! 
 
 TREASON 
 
 Now the People lay their hands 
 On black Treason s gown and bands, 
 Sign its forehead with the sign, 
 Round it draw the fatal line, 
 And pronounce the awful curse 
 Of the living universe: 
 Anathema! anathema! 
 
of tofjn aimr 191 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY 
 
 It comes not with the passion of spent, useless tears, 
 Nor not with the reflux of our griefs and fears; 
 
 Nor with dumb sorrow as for wasted lives, 
 But with the solemn purpose of the years. 
 
 For the broad charter of our freedom yet, 
 To which the seal of their true lives was set, 
 
 Pledging the hopes of freedom to mankind; 
 Remembering what it cost, can we forget? 
 
 TO JAMES ABRAM GARFIELD 
 
 When to the summit thou shalt come elect 
 By strenuous toil, and by the golden dower 
 Of hearts and hopes to blossom in an hour 
 
 Of happy fortune, standing there erect 
 
 Before the altar sworn with due respect 
 To consecrate thy life s best fruit and flower, 
 Remember that the top of human power 
 
 In prospect green, is bald in retrospect. 
 
 And therefore think that when these servile hearts 
 That kiss thee now, shall melt and fall away, 
 Unless thou bear a touchstone in thy mind, 
 
 Thou shalt become the prey of subtle arts, 
 
 And find not friends but flatterers who betray 
 Thy soul to bondage like a Samson blind. 
 
192 
 
 FEBRUARY SKIES 
 
 Stepping outside my domicile at eve, 
 I saw as one in stupor and surprise 
 The cold disdain of February skies 
 
 Freezing our earth to the last bosom-heave. 
 
 No cloud nor color, mist nor stain did grieve 
 The stainless ether s beauty by devise 
 Of pure severity of light that lies 
 
 In seeing truth where others but believe. 
 
 The city drest in winter sunshine lay 
 Open to sight in every thoroughfare. 
 
 Dome, temple, spire, tall-masted ship and bay 
 Stood all transfigured in the shining air: 
 
 O that my style possessed this virtue rare 
 
 To show the vision of the world to-day. 
 
 PEEPING FROGS 
 
 Now come the minstrels of the swamp and pool, 
 The peeping frogs which make the shallows ring 
 At sundown like some myriad-squeaking thing! 
 
 Thus with our senses Nature plays the fool 
 
 And has these blubberings of her infant school 
 (Her lower forms which make a noise to sing), 
 Kept like the rune-stocks of the ancient spring 
 
 In notched green flags among the waters cool. 
 
 I know the blood-root and the crocus nigh, 
 New leaves and grass and winter going off; 
 
 Soon as the earth sends up that herald cry 
 
 It makes me dream of Summer bye-and-bye, 
 Of shade, and cattle at the drinking trough, 
 
 And sunburnt reapers in a field of rye. 
 
of olm afcar 193 
 
 GREENLAND 
 
 We went from the land of palm and pine 
 
 To the land of hail and snow; 
 
 And we saw like sheeted ghost arise 
 
 From the vast ice-plains below - 
 
 What eidolans that then appeared 
 
 The spirits of mist and snow! 
 
 Afar in the dim and desolate land 
 
 With never a grain of earth or sand 
 
 Where a shrub or tree could grow - 
 
 They stood alone in the spectral earth 
 
 Stark images of woe! 
 
 And we saw the terminal dark morain 
 
 And the frozen mountains clove in twain 
 
 Where the roaring rivers go. 
 
 And we heard the awful splitting sound 
 
 Of ice in the gorge below 
 
 By cliffs that foothold scarce afford 
 
 When the frozen torrents come to be 
 
 Falling and flowing o er fell and fiord 
 
 In all their grace and wondrous glory 
 
 From jutting crag and promontory. 
 
 We saw the jingling icy board 
 
 Go down to the distant sea. 
 
 The cold that vegetation kills 
 
 Kills animal life; but by a jag 
 
 Of rock we found where the mute air thrills 
 
 In the very heart of the iron hills, 
 
 The bones of deer and antlered stag. 
 
 By painful steps, with progress slow, 
 
 We drag ourselves o er the frozen ground, 
 
 But yet no sign of life was found, 
 
194 Jflemorial Bolumc 
 
 Unless, in cavities of ice 
 Metallic dust from cosmic space, 
 Blown to that spot, the single trace 
 Of life in alien worlds the price 
 Of knowledge here when all around 
 A shroud that hides the form below 
 The earth puts on her fleecy robe, 
 And swells to the top of the convex globe 
 In the land of ice and snow. 
 There a single cross alone we found, 
 And a pair of ravens wheeling came 
 In the gathering darkness as it stole 
 A crown and omen mute with woe. 
 They were the omens of the land 
 Black to the eyes which burned like flame 
 And calling back to a mortal form 
 The spirit of immortal woe 
 Incarnate once in Edgar Poe. 
 
 AN OLD APPLE TREE 
 
 Standest thou here, my friend, so old and gray? 
 
 Why, I remember thee in youth, a boy 
 About thy roots how oft I used to play 
 
 With little sister, carry many a toy 
 But best of all the acorn s tiny tray. 
 
 IN THE ROTUNDA OF THE CAPITOL 
 
 I am afraid, I really am, of ghosts; 
 Will they not walk out of their frames, malign? 
 Or will they hold like sentries still their posts, 
 Until they hear the joyful countersign? 
 
of tofm atoar 195 
 
 THE THOMAS STATUE 
 
 What fire, what spirit in the creature s feet, 
 And in his frame where battle tremors ran. 
 
 I see quite plainly coming up the street 
 
 The horse s head, but where now is the man? 
 
 CLARK MILLS STATUE OF JACKSON 
 
 Look at Old Hickory and his favorite stud 
 With raised forefeet as pawing in the air. 
 
 A squall has struck the horse the rider s blood 
 Is up, and "by the Eternal!" hear him swear. 
 
 THE BURIED CITY 
 
 Out of the Red Sea of the sunset spread 
 With wreck and ravage of the sunken day, 
 
 I see my neighbors chimneys rising 
 As of a submerged city in the bay. 
 
 The mind sees truly; but the eye still sees 
 
 Not that which is, but only that which seems; 
 
 And well I know that visions such as these 
 Become a wanderer in the land of dreams. 
 
 My couch is laid where I no longer dream 
 In the wide porches of the House of Sleep; 
 
 I muse in thought upon the mighty stream 
 Of Memory backward where the ages keep 
 
196 emorial Bolumc 
 
 Stern watch and ward above long-buried things, 
 Like darkness brooding with extended wings; 
 
 And thus what once was comes again to be 
 Known to the soul which re-discovers things, 
 
 And calls up images of what we see. 
 
 There was a sunken city, travelers say, 
 
 Under a sea o er which their ships have sailed; 
 
 An inland sea and city of Cathay, 
 
 That land which never yet of wonders failed. 
 
 It was no city of enchantment built 
 By toiling slaves and genii of the mine, 
 
 But a true city, many-domed and gilt, 
 
 Seen thro the shimmer of the seas to shine. 
 
 There were broad streets and ornamented squares, 
 And massive piles of buildings grand and high; 
 
 But all deserted were the thoroughfares, 
 Silent the temples open to the sky. 
 
 Deep in the waters crystal-clear and cold 
 Stretched like a curtain of translucent air 
 
 Abides the city, and the belfries hold 
 
 The bells (they say) which knell even yet to prayer. 
 
 If this be true, it is a truth diffract 
 
 Cross-lights of error, and of judgment ill: 
 
 As in the twilight, an old stump in fact 
 Stands for an imp or a hobgoblin still. 
 
 We dream but what we see, and I saw this 
 Across the murky pool of daylight dead, 
 
 My neighbors chimneys, like the towers of Dis 
 Out of the sea of sunset rising red. 
 
of )n J>atoar 197 
 
 THE LAST JUDGMENT 
 
 What voice is that like the last thunder-boom 
 
 Of tempest on the hills, in one crash ending? 
 
 Lo, from the clouds the Son of Man descending, 
 Clothed with all might and majesty, in gloom 
 From which the face of Glory flowers in bloom: 
 
 On the vast slopes of hills in circuit bending, 
 
 All tribes and nations of the dead are wending, 
 The damned in silence to receive their doom. 
 The awful Critic of mankind will now 
 
 Pronounce one word like the great seal of fate 
 While heaven and earth shall flee before his brow 
 
 Of thunder charged with bad men s doom and date, 
 
 By his recorded and eternal vow, 
 The good to glory are caught up in state. 
 
 "ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE 
 ATQUE VALE" 
 
 This was the way of Roman brother s love: 
 
 High, grave, and stern, though veiled above the bier, 
 
 Hushing the sobs that his deep bosom heave, 
 
 Hiding the hand that wiped the furtive tear. 
 
 And so, forever to forever, well - 
 
 Brother beloved! goodbye, hail and farewell! 
 
 "O, withered is the garland of the war! 
 
 The soldier s pale is fallen; young boys and girls 
 
 Are level now with men; the odds is gone 
 
 And nothing now is left remarkable 
 
 Beneath the visiting moon. 
 
198 Jftemorial Botome 
 
 When she the flag of fear unfurled 
 
 At Actium, she changed the world. 
 
 Had Antony been chaste and true 
 
 To his Octavia, the world knew 
 
 That young Augustus was no match 
 
 For Rome s great soldier: one must catch 
 
 The golden moment of success; 
 
 Augustus did, and then grew less 
 
 The shadow of Antony; the one endured, 
 
 The other s genius was obscured, 
 
 Grew pale and dwindled like a star 
 
 In contact with a greater far 
 
 But the most shameful, damning note 
 
 Of infamy was when he crept 
 
 His honor and his glory slept 
 
 Under a woman s petticoat. 
 
 CARTHAGO EST DELENDA 
 
 The banished Marius sitting on the tomb 
 Of buried empire, felt within him creep 
 Remorse of Roman savageness a-steep 
 In mournful memory of the settled doom 
 Of greatness swept by war s last thunder-boom 
 To annihilation and eternal sleep. 
 
 Behold the Lady Tanith from the deep 
 Sea rising sad as Sorrow s face in gloom. 
 Unveiled she looks on desolation hoar 
 From Jebel Gamart to the bordering foam 
 O er which with insult, the proud conqueror bore 
 
 Her stolen peplum to the rival Rome. 
 So the Great Goddess waits till they restore 
 
 Her Tyrian purple veil and rites at home. 
 
of atoar 199 
 
 IN ANSWER TO CLEOPATRA S PROTEST; 
 
 OR, 
 
 HAS SHE BEEN MISREPRESENTED? 
 
 But who shall contravene, one idle deem, 
 
 The poet s vision and the sculptor s dream? 
 
 If one could see within that mask of stone 
 
 The soul that lived to love and friendship known, 
 
 The fire that rolled at bottom of her eye 
 
 Full-charged with thunder like a sultry sky, 
 
 The cloud that hung still round her drooping brows 
 
 Heavy with passion of her broken vows, 
 
 The manners mutable and the mind of fear 
 
 Not for herself but those who held her dear! 
 
 Her craft by nature and the boundless guile 
 
 That made her still the "Serpent of Old Nile"; 
 
 Her woman s whim in every vortex whirled, 
 
 Which made or marred the fortunes of a world, 
 
 Her feline nature armed to scratch and bite 
 
 E en more than tiger, tiger burning bright, 
 
 Her neck ophidian and her eyes which burned 
 
 With that strange glitter of a serpent s turned 
 
 In fond and fatal fascination where 
 
 She marked her prey, and bade it flutter there; 
 
 I think, my friend, in spite of your fine verse, 
 
 You d hardly have taken her "for better or worse!" 
 
 A most uncomfortable woman o my soul, 
 
 Better the shot, the dagger, or the bowl! 
 
 And well Marc Antony might thank his stars, 
 
 He scaped by dying so, from fiercer jars, 
 
 From greater tempests, and worse civil wars. 
 
200 Memorial Volume 
 
 TO A FAULT-FINDING CRITIC 
 
 What is it makes the kettle black, 
 Or makes the china cup so blue? 
 If jaundiced eye should lustre lack, 
 Tis bile that gives the bilious hue. 
 The sky to some is but blue-black, 
 And who knows how to it look you? 
 
 LETTER AND SPIRIT 
 
 The letter kills, the spirit giveth life." 
 Whoever shall to excellence aspire 
 
 Must shun his fate, poor man! who is, in spite 
 
 Of nature and his stars, condemned to write. 
 Fat, foolish wits habitually admire 
 The fool of quality faultless in attire. 
 
 The negative virtues are deemed only right 
 
 By critics who commend the tame and trite, 
 But hate originality and fire. 
 Eternal grinders of the commonplace, 
 
 Coldly correct, and hopelessly made dull; 
 Wanting in spirit, beauty, wit and grace, 
 
 Losing the kernel, give you but the hull: 
 And best described in Tennyson s phrase, 
 
 "Icily regular, splendidly null." 
 
 A FABLE WITH AN APPLICATION 
 
 Unto a spirit in the realm of gloom 
 
 There came an angel whom that soul malign 
 Accosted, saying, What a flower is thine! 
 
of of atoar 201 
 
 For in his hand the Angel bore a bloom 
 Exceeding beautiful, of so rare perfume 
 That that ill spirit, drunken as by wine, 
 Craved of his guest the flower bestowed in sign 
 Of favor to him. And behold in room 
 Of flower, a scorpion! 
 
 Who gives away 
 
 In church or home, a spotless maiden flower 
 To a vile man unworthy of such dower, 
 Repeats the angel s action every day. 
 And every scandal of such marriage born 
 
 Is but the flower-hatched cockatrice of morn. 
 
 SIR JOHN HAWKINS 
 
 Courage and fortune the great navigator 
 Serving as guides, led forth, surprising first 
 The secret of new lands discovered erst. 
 
 Sable, on waves of sea, the argent bore 
 
 Upon his crest of arms a demi-moor 
 
 As bond and captive; so indeed he nurst 
 By traffic that ill flame which lately burst 
 
 In conflagration of vast civil war. 
 
 Foreign and far to seek of great events 
 
 The trivial cause, which some call Providence. 
 
 Hardy and bold and pious and humane 
 Was he reputed England s chief sailor, 
 
 He bound a race in slavery s lasting chain, 
 Till Abram Lincoln came, emancipator. 
 
202 Memorial Volume 
 
 A FABLE AND A MORAL 
 
 A London Jew kept in the Strand, 
 Who dealt in clothes at second-hand. 
 He stood the passers-by to note; 
 His business was to sell a coat. 
 
 Two countrymen both raw and thin, 
 Father and son, he roped them in; 
 And spite of frequent loud denials, 
 He tried on coats, but all his trials 
 
 Were useless, vain; not one would suit. 
 They turned to go, when like a brute, 
 The Jew caught hold the younger one, 
 And then a coat, he forced it on. 
 
 4 The coat I tell you does not suit!" 
 "You tell me so? that is no goot; 
 And not to wear it is a sin: 
 The coat ish goot the poy s too thin!" 
 
 OVID IN EXILE 
 
 (TRISTIA VIII) 
 
 Now would I mount thy car, Triptolemus, 
 Who sent the seed-corn unto stranger lands. 
 Now I would yoke the dragons which Medea 
 Had, when she fled the brazen tower of Corinth. 
 Now I would take thy all-ambitious plumes, 
 Perseus, or Daedolus, yea, even thine! 
 
of w atoar 203 
 
 That I, far-winging the thin yielding air, 
 Might suddenly behold my native land, 
 The aspect of my own deserted house, 
 The faces of my old remembered friends, 
 And the dear lips of my abandoned spouse. 
 
 But wherefore, fool ! with childish wishes vain 
 Wear out the day which now, nor never, will 
 Convey thee homeward; were it achievable, 
 Adore the numen of Augustus, whom 
 Thou hast offended; and placate the god. 
 He can provide thee with swift chariots, 
 And even wings; granted return, thou shalt 
 Straightway be plumed. 
 
 Should I ask this 
 
 Boon of all boons, the greatest I can ask, 
 Might it not seem presumptuous? I fear. 
 Perchance, hereafter, when his anger shall 
 Have time to cool, this, too, my chief request 
 May come before him; in the meantime, less 
 Be worth my while ask, as an ample boon, 
 Leave to go anywhere away from here. 
 
 Nor earth, nor air, nor water, nor the sky 
 
 Agree with me; a listless languor holds 
 
 My body always, whether or no the mind 
 
 With a black melancholy invade the joints, 
 
 Or in the region lies the cause of ill. 
 
 Since I touched Pontus, I have never known 
 
 Refreshing sleep. Now weighs me down the curse, 
 
 Insomnia; hardly my wasted flesh 
 
 Covers my bones; my food I relish not: 
 
 And that same color of the dead leaf which 
 
204 Memorial Volume 
 
 Pervades the world in autumn when the chill 
 Blast of the winter strikes the wood, is mine. 
 My failing strength is not recruited here, 
 And sorrow s cause is never absent long. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE STANDARDS 
 
 To arms, Democrats! 
 
 Come all ye true blue 
 In the fold of the faithful, 
 
 So staunch and so true. 
 No wavering now, 
 
 The issues are drawn; 
 The stake is tremendous, 
 
 The battle is on. 
 Two flags to the vision 
 
 Of hosts are unrolled - 
 The standard of silver, 
 
 The standard of gold. 
 
 The populist leader, 
 
 A stripling at best, 
 Like young Lochinvar 
 
 Comes out of the west. 
 By anarchy s torch 
 
 Outstreaming and red, 
 From the cave of Adullam 
 
 His cohorts are led. 
 With ragshag and bobtail 
 
 The watchword outrolled 
 Is War to the knife!" 
 
 On the standard of gold. 
 
of fofn afoar 205 
 
 Be it so we accept 
 
 Defiance outhurled 
 To bivouac and battle 
 As wide as the world. 
 Far-shining the glitter 
 
 Of silverites led; 
 After Bryan all Asia 
 
 And Famine do tread. 
 But lo! the Republican 
 
 Arms which enfold 
 The ensign advanced, 
 
 OUR standard is gold. 
 
 Columbia s statesmen 
 
 Accustomed to wield 
 Her wisdom in council, 
 
 Her thunders in field; 
 Her judges whose learning 
 
 With purity vied, 
 Her Bench and her Bar 
 
 With the Pulpit allied, 
 Will answer the Boy 
 
 On the burning deck rolled, 
 When the standard of silver 
 
 Goes down before gold. 
 
 The party of Jefferson 
 Its name to you gives; 
 
 The spirit of Jackson 
 In you it still lives. 
 
 O, once the wide continent 
 Rang with their fame 
 
206 Jttemorial Bolume 
 
 And faction was awed 
 
 By the sound of their name. 
 
 Their spirits abroad 
 Your arms will uphold, 
 
 Their voices are ringing, 
 Their standard was gold. 
 
 For God and for country 
 
 Then strike as you must; 
 Shall National Honor 
 
 Be trailed in the dust? 
 Who flaunts in your face 
 
 The anarchist rag? 
 But down with the traitor 
 
 And up with the flag! 
 Cheap manhood and money 
 
 Require to be told 
 They re not the American 
 
 Standard of gold. 
 
 To the valley, Decision, 
 
 Move on without fear; 
 March on, Democrats! 
 
 Armageddon is here. 
 With Bragg and with Buckner, 
 
 With Watterson, ah! 
 Go follow his dashing 
 
 White plume of Navarre. 
 Let Cleveland, our Cromwell, 
 
 From citadel bold 
 Still thunder defiance, 
 
 The STONEWALL of gold. 
 
of Sfrtnt afratp 207 
 
 By the graves of your fathers 
 
 Yet green with renown; 
 By their spirits immortal 
 
 Like stars looking down; 
 Consider their trust, 
 
 And demagogues hate, 
 But don t let them scuttle 
 
 The Old Ship of State. 
 The stars in their courses 
 
 Fight for us, enrolled 
 In the Flag of the Union, 
 
 Whose standard is gold. 
 
 THEN AND NOW 
 
 There came a man once out of Galilee 
 Unto Jerusalem; he came as sent 
 On the destruction of the Temple bent. 
 
 At least, they said so; robbers they should be 
 
 Who took this man and nailed him to a tree. 
 His only crime that his whole life was spent 
 In doing good not for emolument. 
 
 "I came not to destroy but to fulfill," said he. 
 
 We have our Temple, and perform our vow 
 Of service here for gain to private ends. 
 Reform the service? Well, who takes the stent? 
 
 If Christ should come and overturn it now? 
 We send to Coventry who seeks to cleanse 
 The Augean stables of the government. 
 
208 emorial Bolume 
 
 THE NEW YORK GIRL 
 
 Girl of the Period! Belle of Fifth Avenue! 
 Most gorgeous creature and so wondrous wise 
 In matter-o -money beating her who plies 
 Her nightly trade without excuse - tis true 
 In some respects she much resembles you - 
 Throwing on golden youth great, greedy eyes, 
 Snapping at every gilded bait that flies, 
 In mad flirtation leading the hallooing, 
 Pursued by men, and always men pursuing. 
 
 A BALLADE OF WAITING 
 
 (HISPANIOLA LOQUITOR) 
 
 Cuba is waiting, wearily waiting, 
 Land is fallow and there is no fun 
 In rotting quays and box cars freighting 
 Of sugar and bacco, nary a ton. 
 Plantations ruined, owners undone, 
 You have in true heart of a people fond 
 Sown doubt and distrust, made every one 
 See honor at stake, starvation beyond. 
 
 In cafe and corners men are debating 
 Strange things oversea, ill news to run! 
 They pound on benches and tables, stating, 
 "We ask for bread, and they give us a stone. 
 They treat us worse even than Goth and Hun. 
 WeVe plenty of goods, but all in bond. 
 What is the news from Washington? 
 Honor at stake, starvation beyond. 
 
of ofn afcar 209 
 
 Let the People rise in their majesty, mating 
 Like lions that rouse with a roar to stun 
 Ere they dash to pieces a party prating 
 Of twenty per cent! is that all to be won 
 By wearily waiting under the sun? 
 Shame on your Cortes! the lesson conned: 
 Instead of justice tossing a bun - 
 Your honor at stake, our famine beyond. 
 
 ON SCIENTIFIC WORKERS AND SPECIALISTS 
 
 The trowel s ring of masons work doth hide 
 
 Science, in our day, by strong minds controlled; 
 The organizing genius new and bold, 
 Which plans the growing edifice in pride 
 On knowledge, on foundations deep and wide. 
 And well, if men could happily behold 
 "The singing masons building roofs of gold," 
 And not mere mortar-mixers of applied 
 Science inchoate; yet these hod-men are 
 Bringers of all such necessary facts, 
 And indispensable to the building raised, 
 As is the architect, who, from afar 
 
 Surveys the rising pile, and has to tax 
 Creation in his thought, or it outblazed! 
 
 TO A MALIGNANT CRITIC 
 
 (APROPOS OF A LATE ENGLISH NOTICE OF AN AMERICAN POET) 
 
 Fair play s a jewel, taking not one s part. 
 You say "It is not poetry,"- - what then? 
 The "sweltered venom" of a critic pen 
 
210 emorial Bofame 
 
 Kills with a scratch, or wounds a noble heart. 
 
 Your poisoned arrow, shot with savage art, 
 Betrayed the skulker in his dirty den 
 
 Impunity from scorn s most killing dart. 
 
 That ancient feud, hereditary war, 
 Waged by all critics upon poets once 
 Tinged, it may be, with poet hopes forlorn, 
 
 Moved you, I think, by misdirection, for 
 Retorted here on the malignant dunce, 
 I find this wisp of hay on that Bull s horn. 
 
 ON THE WORLD S PROGRESS 
 
 (A METRICAL DISSERTATION) 
 
 Is the world s progress to your mind 
 A thing established? Is mankind 
 Growing better? World at worst, 
 Shall it be forever curst 
 With war and slavery? Does it sense 
 The evil of intemperance? 
 Schopenhauer, to name it still 
 Representative Idea and Will, 
 Labors at the world in vain, 
 To find a purpose in it plain. 
 He does not even find as much 
 Nobility of mind and soul 
 As characterizes many such 
 On the earth as have attained the goal 
 The empire-builder, Cecil Rhodes, 
 Carried away from Oxford goads 
 That were to him the Temple s nail 
 Of wisdom words that never fail. 
 
of tofm atoar 211 
 
 The words were Aristotle s, hence 
 
 A man s, he said, of great sentence, 
 
 The purport being, and the cause 
 
 That I remember what it was, 
 
 c The only thing that ever can 
 
 Dignify the life of man, 
 
 Or give splendor to a name, 
 
 Is to have a noble aim." 
 
 Applying this, now, to the task 
 
 Of governing the world, we ask 
 
 Is there in this mighty frame 
 
 Of things nobility of aim? 
 
 And such greatness of design 
 
 As adhered to, every line 
 
 And point about it is the sign 
 
 Manual of the Maker s thought 
 
 Impressed upon it, as it ought 
 
 To be, evincing the divine 
 
 Perfection which may justly claim 
 
 In everything there is, in fine, 
 
 The shaping argument from design 
 
 Which, always one thing and the same, 
 
 Has reached its being s end and aim 
 
 In that thing which the artist sought 
 
 As something worthy to be wrought, 
 
 A masterpiece in deed and thought! 
 
 Does the world to you stand still, 
 
 Or does it simply roll and range, 
 
 An everlasting orb of change? 
 
 If the world is Living Will, 
 
 There is flux and reflux still. 
 
 But for progress who shall say 
 
 The world is farther on to-day 
 
212 temorial Bolume 
 
 Than last year, or yesterday? 
 
 Do we know the nature of things 
 
 Lucretius wrote on, or more nigh, 
 
 Napoleon was conquered by? 
 
 Out in space the planet swings, 
 
 Balancing itself on wings 
 
 Of gravitation held across, 
 
 Like Poe s (and Coleridge s) albatross 
 
 That seemed upon the air to sleep, 
 
 But its perpetual motions keep 
 
 Their double watch both night and day, 
 
 And while rolling on its way, 
 
 Like a pendulum it swings away 
 
 Twixt eternity and time. 
 
 An instance of the false sublime 
 
 If this be called, why then I ll say 
 
 Betwixt the Unseen and the Seen; 
 
 So there the pendulum swings between 
 
 Two points, but never goes beyond: 
 
 Tis ruled by an Enchanter s wand 
 
 Whose name, you may suppose, is Law. 
 
 "Punctual as sun and star," 
 
 They seem to know just where they are, 
 
 Vespers or matins, at the chime, 
 
 And they get there every time! 
 
 Judicious Hooker said of Law, 
 
 And its all so potent rod 
 
 Silently constraining choice, 
 
 From her seat the bosom of God, 
 
 Millions of orbs in vortex whirled, 
 
 Silently hark ning heed the Voice 
 
 Which is the Harmony of the World. 
 
ffioemg of ffirfm afrarp 213 
 
 Nevermore shall I forget 
 
 The sublimest moment yet 
 
 Of seeing and of being drawn 
 
 To the Voice, and oh! the dawn 
 
 Of the immortal Word-and-thought 
 
 Which, silent as itself then wrought 
 
 A miracle another dawn it brought 
 
 Of the grandest yet, Idea 
 
 Floating in an atmosphere 
 
 Of world-wonder to be caught 
 
 Do you grasp it fully here? 
 
 The soul-sublime and awe-struck thought: 
 
 In this apparent all disorder 
 
 Lo, there reigns Eternal Order. 
 
 Reconcile it as you can, 
 
 The pessimist, who is mere man, 
 
 Sees the disorder, but his soul 
 
 Never arrives at the Great Plan, 
 
 The vast conception of the whole. 
 
 And there are many, most men see 
 
 Only disorder things like mad 
 
 Folk in Bedlam under ban 
 
 And the human soul, the sad 
 
 Pilgrim of Immortality, 
 
 Affecting here great wanderlust, 
 
 In the blue distance travels far, 
 
 Think you, does the world stand still? 
 
 Or does it simply roll and range 
 
 Forever, though in devious ways, 
 
 But in right Tennysonian phrase, 
 
 Does the "great globe spin forever 
 
 Down the ringing grooves of change?" 
 
214 Hemoriai Volume 
 
 Longfellow s clock upon the stairs, 
 
 Ticking on "forever . . . never" . . . 
 
 Is the burden which it bears, 
 
 And the secret which it shares 
 
 With all greatly burdened souls, 
 
 As it rolls, as it rolls. 
 
 "Change," said Randolph, in the storm 
 
 Of debate, "is not reform." 
 
 And I think, if you insist, 
 
 The fact of progress wont be missed 
 
 By the investigator, hike 
 
 The historian as he list. 
 
 I won t say it don t exist, 
 
 Whether you like it or dislike, 
 
 But only that it won t be missed, 
 
 And therefore lost, the same alike 
 
 To optimist and pessimist. 
 
 But I think one should desist 
 
 In any case, and not insist 
 
 Upon extreme opinions, you 
 
 Must hold your own, but to be true 
 
 To me and mine own point of view, 
 
 I equally am, entitled to. 
 
 None, of course, can reconcile 
 
 The conflicting views erewhile 
 
 Of pessimist and optimist. 
 
 But could one only strike between, 
 
 And thereby hit the Golden Mean, 
 
 He would have no antagonism, 
 
 Since all men have consideration 
 
 For the pearl of Moderation. 
 
 Not every one can hold in poise 
 
 Calm judgment, far aloof from noise 
 
of tott afcar 215 
 
 And dust of risen controversy. 
 But many men of a refined 
 And shrewd intelligence have a kind 
 Of worldly wisdom, not the true, 
 But insight, knowledge to obtain 
 State secrets, and reports which gain 
 Them credit with the world of yore, 
 The world behind, if not before. 
 And this may be what Milton meant 
 When he assigned that instrument 
 Of knowledge to a class of men, 
 Who much employ it now and then, 
 Till Old Experience do attain 
 To something of prophetic strain." 
 But since I have not here the goads 
 Of Aristotle, nor the gall 
 Of Schopenhauer to impel 
 Me on the high and mighty road, 
 The a-priori entresol 
 To Wisdom s house within the brain, 
 With its rich fraught of Ideas on 
 The porches of King Solomon. 
 The pillared arches, polished floors, 
 And the magnificent corridors 
 Of mighty vistas far away 
 To the Delectable Mountains, aye 
 Teeming with Visions, and all vain 
 Philosophies of earth en train, 
 But all with one accord in toils 
 Of sin or Satan which embroils 
 In thickening hordes the human fry, 
 As fast the engulphing billow rolls 
 Its freight of all unhappy souls 
 
216 ftemorial Volume 
 
 To Scylla and Charybdis nigh. 
 
 And not alone the bad take wing 
 
 As weak and wicked perishing, 
 
 But there the good, the brave, the fair 
 
 Drawn backward by down-streaming hair, 
 
 Are caught in the rush and roaring still 
 
 Of earth s vast vortices of ill. 
 
 Supposing angels to have wings, 
 
 As heretofore the poet sings, 
 
 And one from heaven to earth revealed, 
 
 Came flying o er a battle field, 
 
 Would he not think, if seeing well, 
 
 He had mistaken earth for hell? 
 
 And what does Homer s Iliad teach? 
 
 Not that religion good men preach, 
 
 Not love, but hatred giving birth 
 
 To war enacting hell on earth. 
 
 Monotony of slaughter tired 
 
 Even Bryant, who the verse admired; 
 
 And gentle Cowper could not well 
 
 Translate the Iliad war is hell. 
 
 As Goethe saw, and said of it, 
 
 The history of the world so lit 
 
 By war that blackens every page 
 
 With lust and cruelty and rage, 
 
 Cannot be written, and be true 
 
 From any moral point of view. 
 
 What Iliads vast, of human woes 
 
 The annals of our race disclose! 
 
 And "civilized nations" are the worst, 
 
 With rum and Romanism curst, 
 
 And all the ills that in the train 
 
 Of trade still follow greed of gain. 
 
of *$tfyn Jbatoarp 217 
 
 The Bible and the missionary 
 
 Are followed by the "big navee," 
 
 And what the "heathen Chinee" gets 
 
 Is opium, cannon, bayonets. 
 
 For us the red man cursing brands 
 
 Bad faith, bad liquor, and bad lands. 
 
 Hemmed in a ringfence round our pets 
 
 Of the Indian bureau, charged with debts, 
 
 Our "century of dishonor" stands. 
 
 As for the black man s broken chain, 
 
 What have we offered him again? 
 
 We offered once (but this was for 
 
 Indebtedness before the war), 
 
 For centuries of toil unpaid, 
 
 The auction-block and red war made. 
 
 But then, as Abraham Lincoln said, 
 
 In compensation for the red 
 
 Drops which the lash of labor drains 
 
 From negro men and women s veins 
 
 Ay, every drop they put in pawn 
 
 Was balanced by another drawn 
 
 From their white brothers by the sword. 
 
 "I tremble for my country first, 
 
 When I reflect that God is just." 
 
 So Jefferson, in the long ago; 
 
 How true his forecast was, we know 
 
 By all the sluices and the drains 
 
 Of War s red rivers and red rains 
 
 Which crimsoned every battle mead, 
 
 But made for righteousness, indeed, 
 
 And so, proclaiming Slavery dead 
 
 As Julius Caesar, were the red 
 
 Books balanced and posted, sealed up for, 
 
218 Memorial 
 
 And on account of, civil war. 
 
 But as fair weather after rain 
 
 Rejoices all the world again, 
 
 So, in the commonweal of good 
 
 And true American brotherhood, 
 
 We altogether in accord 
 
 Lift up our voice and thank the Lord, 
 
 Because the children now rejoice, 
 
 As did the fathers when they heard 
 
 The clarion and bell-like voice 
 
 Of Liberty proclaim how grand 
 
 It sounded then throughout the land! 
 
 The voice of Liberty that stirred 
 
 The Nation s youth proclaim the word 
 
 To all the inhabitants of the land ! 
 
 The world moves on, and so must we 
 
 Move with it as a ship at sea, 
 
 Or else be left behind to moan 
 
 With moaning sea and wind alone. 
 
 Cling to your bark, then, and trim sail 
 
 Prepared to encounter every gale 
 
 In this rough sea of worldly strife 
 
 On the great ocean here of life. 
 
 Tis written, "We are saved by Hope," 
 
 Which does not interfere with Grace, 
 
 Tho skill and courage have their place; 
 
 As when the great abysses ope 
 
 To swallow you, be not afraid 
 
 To do like him of old who prayed 
 
 To Neptune, saying, tho I ve built 
 
 A goodly ship, I may be spilt 
 
 Clean overboard (indeed, I think 
 
 You are going to spill me in the drink). 
 
of tin J>abar 219 
 
 Help ! Father Neptune, or I sink. 
 
 Full well I know that thou canst save, 
 
 Or send me to a watery grave, 
 
 Do as you please, or as thou wilt, 
 
 But while I have a single spark 
 
 Of courage left me, this brave bark, 
 
 Her nose now to the wind a-swell, 
 
 I do intend on this side hell, 
 
 At least, to steer my rudder well!" 
 
 A story should have pith and point, 
 
 But when the times are out of joint, 
 
 You never can clear up the doubt 
 
 Till you have heard the story out. 
 
 But where then going to begin? 
 
 Or where to end ? There is the sin 
 
 Of doubting or denying God 
 
 Doth chastise nations with the rod 
 
 Of iron war, when necessary; 
 
 He is the judge, not you or me, 
 
 Of times and seasons that agree 
 
 With War and Peace so let it be. 
 
 The problem here of evil in 
 
 ... Its growth and its first origin, 
 
 To Contemplation s eye unfurled, 
 
 Is the profoundest in the world; 
 
 And all great souls that ever loved, 
 
 Are by it most profoundly moved. 
 
 The hairs of our head are numbered? yes, 
 
 But the turn of a hair, the more or less 
 
 Of chance, or accident, or design 
 
 May interfere, and by mute sign 
 
 The banished man must country fly, 
 
 And murder is done in wink of eye. 
 
220 emorial Bolume 
 
 How many a good man, if not great, 
 
 Is made for Misery s life-long mate! 
 
 And as in phosphorescent sea 
 
 Of a steamer s wake at midnight, he 
 
 Who stands on deck and smokes cigar, 
 
 Observes perchance a shooting star, 
 
 So many a lovely light goes out 
 
 In this tremendous sea of doubt 
 
 Goes out, I say, the maiden spark 
 
 Dropt in the waste and watery dark. 
 
 That such things happen, you and I 
 
 Know well enough, but who knows why? 
 
 There is no reason that I know 
 
 Why this arrives, why that must go, 
 
 A life snuffed out if not by choice, 
 
 Or by necessity, a voice 
 
 Of lamentation and complaint 
 
 May reach the ear of heavenly saint, 
 
 Which Heaven a ministering angel sends 
 
 To the lost soul whom it befriends; 
 
 As when on earth before a storm, 
 
 Life saving service men inform 
 
 Themselves of some nigh shipwrect crew, 
 
 And the life-boat in surf put through, 
 
 Goes to their aid, and help is nigh: 
 
 And as they stand their watches by, 
 
 And make provision for the hour 
 
 Of coming tempest, skies that lower, 
 
 So the Good Shepherd evermore 
 
 To wandering sheep along the shore, 
 
 When the wind is high, and in shriller key 
 
 Loud moans the grief of the sobbing sea, 
 
 He knows that sin on the earth prevails, 
 
of toit J>atoar 221 
 
 And that only God can set the sails 
 
 To steer the soul through stormy seas 
 
 To haven of rest and final peace. 
 
 In spite of fortune-telling quacks, 
 
 That is to say, if you receive 
 
 For facts the fables men believe 
 
 As when the Swedish pastor fell 
 
 To writing Letters (home) from hell," 
 
 He did not, probably suspect 
 
 He might be credited with correct 
 
 Knowledge and information of 
 
 The place that writers seldom love 
 
 To mention here to ears polite, 
 
 Though as a pastor he was right. 
 
 One telling phrase, remembered well 
 
 In this book, was "the joys of hell." 
 
 (Now don t convert these "joys" to "jaws," 
 
 For pains and penalties, because) 
 
 Tis evident the pastor, late 
 
 Informed, described hell-up-to-date. 
 
 Which is just what my poet friend did, 
 
 When Hovey wrote, and he appended 
 
 Another canto to Don Juan, 
 
 Good as the old or better, new one 
 
 Wherein, of course, tho he befriended 
 
 The Newport "smart set," he defended 
 
 None of its wild and wicked doings, 
 
 Its cabals, love, intrigue, and wooings, 
 
 Its meanness, marriage and divorces, 
 
 Which, though up here a matter of course is, 
 
 Yet down below, from all one hears, 
 
 Astonished Satan and his peers. 
 
 But, for this wandering, tis confest 
 
222 Memorial Volume 
 
 The subject is too grave for jest, 
 
 So let us in another strain 
 
 Returning home, with hope amain 
 
 Uphold the ways of Providence, 
 
 And by strict logic of events 
 
 Convince ourselves love is not vain, 
 
 But even as old Homer said 
 
 (Since government must have a head), 
 
 "Jove s everlasting golden chain 
 
 Binds heaven and earth and hoary main," 
 
 To which the modern for more weight 
 
 Adding, with no little skill, 
 
 Necessity, the word Jove still, 
 
 "Who binding nature fast in fate, 
 
 Left free the human will." 
 
 But there are those who yet maintain 
 
 The contrary, and, to put it mild, 
 
 Say Homer was a prattling child, 
 
 And Pope a shallow sciolist. 
 
 For sun and wind may chase the mist 
 
 To-morrow off the sea s great face, 
 
 Not off the destiny of the race. 
 
 Vainly we try to peer and see 
 
 Into the heart of the mystery. 
 
 So far as one may judge, iwis 
 
 Tis like that cloudy, dim abyss 
 
 Which Dante strained his eye to be 
 
 At bottom of, but could not see. 
 
 And as fair weather men of note 
 
 Far inland hear old ocean s rote, 
 
 And watch keeping a weather eye; 
 
 And tho weather bureaus lie 
 
 Half the time, the other half, 
 
of ^n atoar 223 
 
 Well, they can afford to chaff 
 
 The almanac-makers who, you know, 
 
 Scatter rain, and hail, and snow, 
 
 With a probable "low," or "high," 
 
 Predicting snowfall in July! 
 
 But supposing it come true 
 
 Once in a while I ve known it to - 
 
 Then, on which side is the laugh? 
 
 Virgil s bird, gigantic Rumor 
 
 Was prophetic, and poor Pol 
 
 Politics is only tol 
 
 Erable, said once Wayne McVeagh, 
 
 In the United States to-day, 
 
 To a man with sense of humor. 
 
 A saying this of equal fame 
 
 With another I could name, 
 
 Cause of heaving many bricks 
 
 By reformers, five or six 
 
 At the author oh, for shame! 
 
 Ah, my brilliant friend, it sticks 
 
 In their crop with wrath extreme: 
 
 "The purification of politics 
 
 Is an iridescent dream." 
 
 For in spite of what you say, 
 
 Tis so in the States to-day. 
 
 And I see no reason why, 
 
 Poet and politician, I 
 
 May not, if I choose to pay 
 
 My respects to such, to-day, 
 
 Lift up my voice and prophesy: 
 
 In the latter years on earth 
 
 Shall be scarcity and great dearth. 
 
 Armies of the unemployed, 
 
224 Memorial Volume 
 
 Seeking work and finding none, 
 
 Nothing doing under the sun, 
 
 Marching on from void to void, 
 
 How fill up without a bun, 
 
 How find work where there is none? 
 
 At sun-up, by the blush of dawn, 
 
 The early riser having gone 
 
 To the rich man s castle gate, 
 
 Sees other servants on him wait 
 
 Electricity is one. 
 
 All the avenues of success, 
 
 All the means by which men rise, 
 
 All the economies which bless, 
 
 Every thunderbolt that flies, 
 
 Long since grasped were seized and held 
 
 Not by main force, but by skill 
 
 Of knowledge, science, strength of will 
 
 And purpose only, then to weld, 
 
 And to use it sans remorse. 
 
 On the weak point brought to bear, 
 
 With cool judgment when and where 
 
 On a rival and his foe 
 
 Falling suddenly, of course, 
 
 And with overwhelming force 
 
 Plant the well delivered blow, 
 
 And keep at him hammering so 
 
 Everlastingly, when he reeled 
 
 Backward from the staggering blow, 
 
 He was driven from the field, 
 
 Or left there a mangled corpse, 
 
 Routed, dragoons, foot and horse 
 
 By one determined not to yield 
 
 Unto folly, or to fame 
 
JDocms of ^ofjn afcarp 225 
 
 His long purposed end and aim. 
 
 What, then, are we coming to 
 
 What will not the Octopus do? 
 
 In the grasping arrogance 
 
 Of its world-wide crazy dance, 
 
 What the poor man s living chance? 
 
 For an answer as we jog, 
 
 Let me to your interrog, 
 
 Tell it by way of apolog. 
 
 An attorney advertised 
 
 For an office boy, surprised 
 
 By an urchin slim and taper, 
 
 Who there at the open door 
 
 Handed him he stood before, 
 
 A crumpled bit of dirty paper, 
 
 Which unrolling then he read: 
 
 "All my folkses here is dead! 
 
 IVe no father, nor no mother, 
 
 Nary sister, nor a brother, 
 
 I m an orphan"- - rising sob 
 
 Choked off here at seeing Bob 
 
 "And you see I ve got to hustle." 
 
 See the point? I hope you do, 
 
 And see what we are coming to, 
 
 As the natural consequence 
 
 Of this mad, infernal dance 
 
 To the poor man s living chance. 
 
 He was never known to hustle 
 
 For himself, and in the bustle 
 
 Of the sons of business, hence 
 
 A figure of no consequence, 
 
 No hurt feeling here of pride, 
 
 He is hustled soon aside, 
 
226 emorial Bolume 
 
 Thrown away as useless lumber, 
 
 Deemed and held for a back number, 
 
 Never until now, Got wot, 
 
 Have better men been worse forgot 
 
 In a world that knows them not! 
 
 He is not inclined to shirk 
 
 Any sort or kind of work, 
 
 And yet he has no heritage 
 
 In the business of this age. 
 
 Look now at that life of ease 
 
 In the multimillionaire; 
 
 Now that all is over and done, 
 
 In life s blood-red setting sun, 
 
 At what, then, does he gasp and stare? 
 
 What is there he feels and sees 
 
 In skeletons of men like trees 
 
 Naked, shivering, cold and bare 
 
 In the winter s icy air? 
 
 As the dry bones rattle on, 
 
 Memories of the dead and gone 
 
 Reminiscing, if he sees, 
 
 How armaments may be increased 
 
 Without endangering the peace 
 
 Of nations, and that war should cease. 
 
 The speaker s language was precise, 
 
 But always courteous and nice, 
 
 Though non-committal on the main 
 
 Question, it seemed to be in vain. 
 
 A nation s life was but a span; 
 
 He had opinions as a man, 
 
 To which his title and his place 
 
 Counseled reserve, when face to face 
 
 With prudence looking to the end 
 
of ofn atoar 227 
 
 Of progress, he would recommend 
 One thing, almost the first and last, 
 Study the Records of the Past. 
 Herodotus in praising, he 
 The Froissart of antiquity, 
 Believed the old historian right 
 On many questions now in sight. 
 But note the mastery with ease 
 Of wisdom in Thucydides, 
 Abounding in the maxims best 
 Of statesmanship among the rest. 
 Both as a mentor and a guide, 
 He tells you with a kind of pride 
 In their achievements, arts and arms 
 Of those who bore victorious palms 
 When Sparta fought, when Athens died, 
 But not what they were fighting for. 
 Nor does he tell you though allied 
 To all that s best in literature. 
 
 Mayhap he thinks, Now were not these 
 
 The armies of the unemployed 
 
 Moving on to the great void 
 
 Prepared for them fate s spindle whirled 
 
 From the beginning of the world - 
 
 Creation s void ? it may be so, 
 
 Quoth the Octopus. All I know 
 
 Is their wandering, early, late, 
 
 Houseless, homeless, desolate, 
 
 Wives and children tagging after 
 
 Ruined roof-tree, blackened rafter 
 
 In the tall rank-waving grass, 
 
 And the moaning night-winds pass 
 
228 JHemorial Bolume 
 
 Over the once happy hearth 
 
 Where of old sat Love and Mirth 
 
 Instead of moaning, and thereafter, 
 
 Peals as of demoniac laughter 
 
 Issuing, God knows whence and why, 
 
 But the Octopus drawing nigh 
 
 The poor man s cottage tell you what, 
 
 It stood upon that very spot 
 
 Where the wind is moaning, hark! 
 
 It was windowless and dark, 
 
 And its occupants are fled 
 
 To the regions of the dead. 
 
 And the Octopus? is it true 
 
 By strict logic of events 
 
 (Same as fate, or Providence), 
 
 What is pertinent if true - 
 
 Is it doing me and you? 
 
 With Hamlet I protest your seems" 
 
 Given to nightmare and pipe dreams. 
 
 Although I may, for some odd wrinkles, 
 
 Be numbered with the Rip Van Winkles. 
 
 "Give him," folk said even so, 
 
 "A cold potato and let him go." 
 
 And if I am behind the time, 
 
 Still, both in reason and in rhyme, 
 
 There is warrant for it, I 
 
 Allow Monopoly s mad dance 
 
 Says of the Poor man s Living Chance, 
 
 Touching the world s cold charity, 
 
 About the same thing give him, lo, 
 
 A cold potato and let him go. 
 
 Time and the dance meanwhile go on 
 
of Stoljtt atoarp 229 
 
 Above the heedless, rough and rude 
 
 Heads of the * swinish multitude" 
 
 (Burke s phrase), but simile holds good, 
 
 At least, so, to the looker-on 
 
 Noticing how the ball-room floor 
 
 Undulates with more and more 
 
 Moving figures in applause 
 
 Of the Octopus cruel claws 
 
 Grasping out and holding on 
 
 To all it gets, and more anon. 
 
 But hark I that hoarse and humming noise 
 
 From down below that seems to creep 
 
 Ominous to all that sleep 
 
 As on high masts do sailor boys, 
 
 With deep calling unto deep. 
 
 Day of reckoning, it will come 
 
 With tempest coming those who dance 
 
 Like horses that curvet and prance, 
 
 Teaching their riders to be proud 
 
 Of trampling on the low-down crowd, 
 
 And more like hogs before the storm 
 
 Leaving their sties yet snug and warm, 
 
 Who stand outside with gaping jaws 
 
 To pick up and to carry straws, 
 
 (The reason why, of course you know 
 
 Straws show which way the wind doth blow). 
 
 Now looking up unto the skies, 
 
 Now to the ground that seems to rise 
 
 And mingle with the great commotion 
 
 Of quaking earth and heaving ocean, 
 
 And nowhere finding refuge, he 
 
 Betwixt the devil and deep sea, 
 
 As Coleridge saw and said, "There plied, 
 
230 jftemorial Volume 
 
 Down the river with wind and tide, 
 
 A pig with vast celerity; 
 
 And the Devil looked wise (seeing) how the while 
 
 It cut its own throat. There! quoth he with a 
 
 smile, 
 
 Goes England s commercial prosperity." 
 Change time and place, with a name or two, 
 And the fable, my friend, is told of you. 
 It is time to close. Ask pardon I. 
 
 A SPARROW S FLIGHT 
 
 A sparrow s flight it seems to us who bide 
 
 Here on the earth; as when, at winter-tide 
 
 By the hearth-blaze snug and warm one sits at meat 
 
 While outside roars the storm of wintry sleet. 
 
 In at one door a sparrow flies to hide 
 
 From blows and bufferings, and its ruffled pride 
 
 To smooth, and bask a minute, ere it glide 
 
 In tempest forth, so is man s life, as fleet 
 
 A sparrow s flight. 
 
 From darkness coming to the light and heat, 
 We fain would tarry at our own fireside 
 But we must forth soon to the wild and wide 
 Desert of gloom, nor heed how friends entreat:* 
 They in our coming and our going greet 
 
 A sparrow s flight. 
 
 * " Linguenda domus et placens uxor." Horace. 
 
PART III 
 
 of 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 Some five and forty years ago, there was a great 
 awakening of the intellectual and moral forces of the 
 country, and particularly of New England. A great 
 many seeds were then slumbering in the fruitful bosom 
 of humanity, some of which have since ripened into 
 reforms of a beneficent and world-wide character. 
 The anti-slavery movement had then, or somewhat 
 earlier, its beginning; the new anaesthesia for pain had 
 been discovered; the blind were taught to read by 
 means of raised letters; and a better treatment of the 
 insane and of criminals was then inaugurated. It was 
 the era of Prison Discipline Societies; of charitable and 
 philanthropic associations; and generally, of a wider 
 and more diffused intelligence. It was then that the 
 lecture platform first assumed a marked prominence 
 in New England; and under the brilliant ministrations 
 of men like Emerson, and Phillips, Sumner, Curtis 
 and Lowell, and John B. Gough, the people were 
 aroused and taught as never before. Massachusetts, 
 under the lead of Horace Mann, had instituted her 
 admirable system of common schools; and her sister 
 states of New England and New York followed closely 
 in her footsteps. 
 
 Bear in mind also that this was equally the era of 
 great inventions; that the first locomotive built in this 
 country dates from the city of Baltimore, and from the 
 
 231 
 
232 Jttemorial Volume 
 
 hand and brain of Peter Cooper, in 1830; that somewhat 
 earlier than this, Eli Whitney invented the cotton-gin; 
 that Asa Waters of Millbury, Mass., turned out the 
 first gun-stock by machinery; that the power-loom, a 
 still older invention, had created Lowell and Man 
 chester, and was beginning to dam the watercourses 
 and to dot the land of New England all over with 
 manufactories; that after the first railroad and the 
 first locomotive, it was only a question of time, and, as 
 it proved, a very short time, before the screw propeller 
 gave us the splendid vision of the ocean steamer and 
 the floating palaces of the Hudson and the Mississippi; 
 and along with these came the telegraph and the fast 
 printing-press. So that, taking all things into con 
 sideration, there probably never was a half-century of 
 equal or similar material progress in the world s history. 
 Under its material aspects, I say, there never was such 
 a half-century of progress; while, intellectually and 
 morally speaking, it was an era of fermentation, of 
 social agitation and aggressive onward movement it 
 was the era of Temperance and other reforms an era 
 of discussion and of working ideas. It is necessary 
 to bear this in mind, to carry this mental picture of 
 the age, this form and pressure of the time, if you are 
 to get any true idea of the man who, as much as any 
 American was, is the representative of the ideas and 
 spirit which were working and molding the character 
 of New England, and, through her, the civilization of 
 the North and the Northwest. One other fact must 
 also be borne in mind the fact, namely, that forty or 
 fifty years ago, the character of the population of 
 New England was homogeneous; it was genuine 
 Yankee, native and to the manor born. 
 
of tofn J>afcar 233 
 
 I happened to look, the other day, into a Boston 
 directory of the year 1835 (a little 6x3^-inch volume), 
 and what do you suppose I found? I found that of 
 the 14,000 names contained in the directory but a very 
 few of them indicate French or Irish descent. The 
 Boston directory of 1885 contains more than 180,000 
 names, a majority of which are not of New England 
 birth or descent. Thus we seem to behold in the Boston 
 of to-day thirteen Bostons of fifty years ago, seven of 
 which are communities of foreigners. 
 
 Remembering this fact, the next time you read Mr. 
 Lowell s essay, "On a certain Condescension in For 
 eigners," you will pardon the keenness of the satire, 
 and be able to understand a reason for it. But, if 
 we except Athens and Florence Athens in the age 
 of Pericles and Florence under the Medici there 
 never was combined in so small a compass as the Boston 
 of 1835 such intense and varied individuality, such 
 intellectual activity, animated by so high a moral 
 purpose, and destined to exert so wide and permanent 
 an influence. It was truly the Athens of America. 
 It contained Daniel Webster glory enough for one 
 city holding one such citizen but around him, and 
 not far off, were such illustrious fellow-citizens as 
 Edward Everett, John Quincy Adams, Josiah Quincy, 
 Harrison Grey Otis, Abbot Lawrence, Ellis Gray Lor- 
 ing, and Dr. Francis Jackson, the discoverer of an 
 aesthesia; then there was the poet-preacher, John 
 Pierpont, author of "Airs of Palestine" and "Deacon 
 Giles s Distillery," and Lyman Beecher, the great 
 apostle of temperance; Dr. Channing, the great 
 Unitarian preacher; and there was Ralph Waldo 
 Emerson, also a Unitarian preacher, then somewhat 
 
234 Memorial Volume 
 
 obscure, and on the point of quitting Boston and the 
 ministry to reside in Concord; then also, of the younger 
 generation fast rising into prominence, there were 
 Charles Sumner, and Wendell Phillips, and Theodore 
 Parker, and Lloyd Garrison, and Joseph T. Bucking 
 ham, editor of the Boston Courier, in which the earlier 
 productions of "Hosea Biglow" first saw the light. 
 James Russell Lowell was then a stripling of sixteen, 
 and just entered at Harvard College; he was graduated 
 in 1838, and in 1841 he issued his first volume of 
 poems, entitled "A Year s Life." There was nothing 
 distinctive or characteristic about this it was neither 
 better nor worse than the first fruits of many a genius, 
 Byron s Hours of Idleness," for instance. In Jan 
 uary, 1843, Lowell became editor of the "Pioneer," or 
 rather joint editor, with Robert Carter. Only three 
 numbers were published, but these three now so 
 scarce as to bear almost any price contained the most 
 remarkable array of rising talent and reputation of, 
 perhaps, any magazine that was ever published. When 
 we mention as among its contributers Poe, Hawthorne, 
 and Miss Elizabeth Barrett not yet Browning 
 Whittier, John Neal, and the musical critic, John S. 
 Dwight, the sculptor-poet, W. W. Story, and Parsons, 
 the translator of Dante, and Jones Very, the hermit- 
 thrush of New England songsters and sonnetteers, 
 we have said enough to show that no magazine before 
 or since could ever boast such a rent-roll of genius as 
 this. And yet it failed because the time was not 
 ripe for a magazine of the lofty aim and purely literary 
 character sketched out by Messrs. Lowell and Carter. 
 But Lowell was not discouraged, and in the following 
 year, 1844, he published the "Legend of Brittany" 
 
of ^fn atoar 235 
 
 and other poems, which showed a great advance upon 
 his previous volume, and contains some of the richest 
 and purest poetry he has ever written. No one ever 
 described the effect of organ music, which 
 
 "Grew up like a darkness everywhere 
 Filling the vast cathedral," 
 
 as Lowell has in this poem; and it is needless to refer 
 to the universally quoted passage beginning: 
 
 "What is so rare as a day in June?" 
 
 But notwithstanding these and other fine things, 
 Mr. Lowell did not make any distinct mark, nor achieve 
 popularity at a bound, as did his neighbor, Longfellow, 
 by his "Voices of the Night." 
 
 Compared to ours, it was an age of romance, and the 
 poet of romanticism who met the demands of taste 
 and fashion of the hour was Longfellow. Lowell s 
 genius, slow to mature and tardy of recognition, and 
 yet solid as it was brilliant, was more in harmony with 
 to-day than the genius of Longfellow, and it will grow 
 rather than diminish in the future. 
 
 Here are four lines from that almost forgotten volume 
 of 1844: 
 
 "Proprieties our silken bards environ: 
 
 He who would be the tongue of this wide land 
 Must string his harp with chords of study iron, 
 And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand." 
 
 Nothing could be more characteristic of the poet or 
 of our time. 
 
 In 1848, appeared anonymously the "Fable for 
 Critics." It is full of fun and satire and excellent 
 silhouette pictures of the American authors of the 
 time. It is almost too witty; and there is no let-up on 
 
236 Jttemorial 
 
 the sense parody and burlesque that runs through it all. 
 But the portraits drawn of American writers are faith 
 ful and original, and so true to life as to be recognized 
 at a glance. In nearly every instance, time has 
 confirmed the judgments of the writer; and posterity, 
 no doubt, will ratify the verdict. A curious testimony 
 to the value and perspicacity of our poet s judgment 
 is the fact that Thomas Hughes, a friend of Lowell, 
 and author of "Tom Brown at Rugby," has suggested 
 that the "Fable for Critics" be adopted as a text 
 book for criticism in the schools. 
 
 But I must hurry on. I come now to the work on 
 which, it appears, the permanent fame of Mr. Lowell, 
 as a humorist must chiefly rest. Need I name the 
 "Biglow Papers"? These had their origin in the 
 political circumstances out of which grew the annexa 
 tion of Texas and its sequel, the war with Mexico. 
 And here it is to be distinctly noticed that Lowell 
 develops for the first time what may be called the 
 comic vein. He associates it, also, with the Yankee 
 dialect; and while, as a fact, such a dialect was never 
 spoken in New England, that is, pure Yankee, any 
 more than such a character as the traditional Yankee - 
 the creature of burlesque and the comic papers ever 
 existed there, it is nevertheless true, that Lowell s 
 writing, in all "Biglow Papers" at least, is the echo 
 of that homely common sense, which, as he says, 
 heated and vivified by conscience, " is apt to be spoken 
 in town-meeting or in the street, at the cross-roads or 
 the corner grocery, whenever and wherever the shrewd 
 and intelligent rustic is challenged or provoked to 
 "say things" and to declare his real sentiments and 
 opinions. No king in his kingliest prerogatives ever 
 
of tofn <afcar 237 
 
 claimed more than the genuine Yankee, that privilege, 
 namely, to say what he thinks. He may say it in 
 nasal tones, or in a high-pitched key, but you are never 
 at a loss for his meaning. For he understands himself, 
 and his language or dialect, which smacks of the soil, 
 is at once racy and original. Lowell, certainly, was the 
 first among us to discover all the wealth of poetic 
 material which lay hidden in this curious Yankee 
 dialect. He was fearful, as he says, that he might 
 degrade a lofty theme and a noble aim, by association 
 with ignoble things for words are things and a 
 great many Yankee words, if not positively vulgar, 
 are what would be called "low" and dangerously near 
 to slang and barbarism. That was one thing to be 
 avoided; and the other way, the danger of being 
 betrayed, in the heat of controversy, into extreme 
 statements extravagance of phrase or avowals not 
 warranted by his real convictions. It was the old 
 peril of steering between Scylla and Charybdis; or, 
 as a Yankee legislator once warned his compatriots 
 that in avoiding Sally, they must take care not to 
 fall upon Carrie Davis. 
 
 It was in the spring or summer of 1846, just forty 
 years ago and the Mexican war then in progress 
 that Ezekiel Biglow, as he calls himself, wrote a letter 
 to the "Boston Courier," enclosing a poem in dialect, 
 purporting to be written by his son "Hosea," and 
 ridiculing the efforts then being made to raise vol 
 unteers in Boston: 
 
 "Thresh away; you ll hev to rattle, 
 On them kittle-drums o yourn. 
 Taint a knowin kind o cattle 
 
 Thet is ketched with mouldy corn." 
 
238 Wemotial Volume 
 
 It was a new note struck suddenly, and at first 
 nobody knew what to make of it. Society," of course, 
 was disgusted. The critics were puzzled. Pious 
 editors and divines were shocked. Even the anti- 
 slavery Sumner, who was nothing if not classical, 
 gravely shook his head, and thought this would never 
 do. But here was the singer, and in dead earnest; 
 here were the unanswerable arguments of Garrison, 
 and the magnificent invectives of Wendell Phillips set 
 to music, in the airiest and most lifting rhythms? 
 adorned with the most effective speech, the choicest 
 bits of current slang, the homeliest of proverbial 
 phrases, and tingling with the free spirit that had 
 animated his ancesters, a line of fighting Puritans since 
 Naseby and Marston Moor. The anti-slavery music 
 was in the air and everybody had to hear it. 
 
 To tell you how Hosea Biglow continued the warfare, 
 how he carried it on, and how triumphantly he ended 
 it, would be simply to chronicle the greatest moral and 
 literary success of our time. In a word, the "Biglow 
 Papers" were a tremendous hit. Mr. Lowell became 
 well known, not only to millions of readers in this coun 
 try, but also to the English, who appeared to take as 
 much pride in his genius and achievements as we do. 
 And please to observe this: it is in the "Biglow Papers" 
 that Mr. Lowell s genius for the first time takes on a 
 public and patriotic character, and associates his name 
 as it is to be hereafter forever entwined with the laurel 
 of civic renown. It is hardly too much to say, that if 
 the "Biglow Papers" had not been written, Mr. 
 Lowell would never have gone as our Minister to Spain 
 and England. How well and faithfully he performed 
 that service, there is no need of saying here. But let 
 
of Poln abar 239 
 
 us dwell for a moment on the characteristic quality of 
 his genius, and its manifestation in broad humor. Mr. 
 Lowell was, first of all, a humorist, and it is this Rabe 
 laisian quality which flavors all the productions of his 
 genius. He is also a wit, and a satirist, but his wit 
 and satire are subsidiary to his humor, and are inva 
 riably directed against grave moral abuses and vices 
 of the time. His genius is original and comic, but one 
 must not forget that the springs of comedy in every 
 great writer lie close to tragedy and tears. The 
 original element and substratum of humor is, perhaps, 
 a profound melancholy. This humorous melancholy 
 drips from the pen and even the walk of some men, 
 who are endowed with a keen sense of the ludicrous, 
 as was Luther, for instance, or, to take a more recent 
 example, Abraham Lincoln. He was enabled to endure 
 the great strain of office in his time because he found 
 that war and politics in this country are only tolerable 
 to a man gifted with a keen sense of the ludicrous. 
 Another man in his place would have been driven mad. 
 And when, twenty-one years ago, this very month and 
 day of the week, on Bad Friday, his fate was upon him, 
 and the land was showed with horror, I do not doubt 
 that his melancholy took the form of presentiment, 
 though he whispered it not, even to the wife of his 
 bosom. I can scarcely doubt it, for I had seen him 
 but barely a week before, walking among the rows of 
 tents on the high and grassy plateau of the James, and 
 I then remarked that despite all his efforts to look 
 cheerful, and despite of the jests which he constantly 
 dropped as he shook hands with the boys in blue, there 
 was a strange and far-away look in his eyes, and an 
 expression on his face, when he thought he was not 
 
240 jttemoriai Volume 
 
 observed, of the most utter and immutable woe. It 
 was as if all the sorrows of his race, or of another one, 
 had settled there, and his spirit was dead weary with 
 dragging the burden and the pain. And this when the 
 joy-bells of victory were ringing in his ears, and the 
 country was gone wild with rejoicing at the close of a 
 long, awful and desolating war. 
 
 If I speak of this, it is only as a crucial instance to 
 prove that the deepest sorrow and the blackest and 
 most profound melancholy are consistent with the 
 brightest and gayest humor. It plays as harmless 
 heat-lightning around the horizon of a man s thoughts, 
 for it is upon such a dark and somber background that 
 a comic genius embroiders its wildest gaieties, its most 
 tender and beautiful creatures the rainbow to the 
 cloud smiles and tears. That Mr. Lowell s genius 
 was thoroughly steeped in this humor, in all of its 
 protean manifestations, goes without saying. But I 
 think it will be the unanimous verdict of all who have 
 ever been so fortunate as to meet Mr. Lowell in social 
 intercourse, as I am sure it will be of his pupils who have 
 met him in the class-room or the study at Elmwood, 
 that the impression of genius derived from his casual 
 conversation was greater and stronger than even that 
 derived from his writings. I know, at least, that the 
 impression is more vivid and complete for the time 
 being. In the presence of this man of genius, who to 
 native endowment joins the rare graces of scholarship 
 and the air of an accomplished man of the world, one 
 feels more than he can describe the humor that is 
 constantly welling up in conversation, and showing its 
 perpetual gleam in looks and tones and gestures as 
 impossible to be hidden behind the soul s mask as to be 
 
of ^on atoar 241 
 
 caught and photographed in a picture or a printed 
 book. You can print a man s joke or witticism, but, 
 unfortunately, you cannot print his manner of saying 
 it. And it is precisely this play of humor, like the 
 shifting of light and color, the iridescence on the neck 
 of the dove, which gives its indescribable charm to 
 Lowell s conversation. It was, of course, natural that 
 the author of the "Biglow Papers" should be something 
 of a humorist, but did it ever strike you that he has 
 drawn his own portrait, in describing another the 
 landlord of the Eagle Inn ? 
 
 "He sauntered through the world as thro a show, 
 
 A critic fine in his hap-hazard way, 
 
 A sort of mild La Bruyere on half-pay. 
 For comic weaknesses he had an eye 
 Keen as an acid for an alkili. 
 
 You might have called him with his humorous twist 
 
 A kind of human entomologist. 
 As these bring home from every walk they take 
 Their hat-crowns stuck with bugs of curious make, 
 
 So he filled all the lining of his head 
 
 With characters impaled and ticketed 
 And had a cabinet behind his eyes, 
 For all they caught of mortal oddities." 
 
 Naturally enough, too, he complained that these 
 "characters" and "oddities" were fast disappearing 
 with the old mail coach, and the bluff and hearty boni- 
 face of the village inn. The Age of Machinery crushed 
 out individuality, and the fashion of Democracy, with 
 its rolling and leveling tendencies, smoothed out all the 
 creases of character. Our school system turned out 
 the average man, a race of mediocrities golden, if 
 you choose but wearisome to look at and contem 
 plate, as so many pins and nails regularly dropped 
 from a machine. He found did Hosea Biglow 
 
242 ^iemorial Bolume 
 
 The nat ral instincts year by year retire, 
 As deer shrink northward from the settler s fire, 
 And he who loves the wild-game flavor more 
 Than city-feasts, where every man s a bore 
 To every other man, must seek it where 
 The steamer s throb and railway s iron flare 
 Have not yet startled with their punctual stir 
 The shy wood-wandering brood of character. 
 
 That is to say, in out of the way nooks and corners, of 
 New England country and village life, places where 
 Repose has settled down in a Sleepy-Hollow of old 
 ancestral customs and traditions, where the wood gods 
 have not been scared away by the screech of the railway 
 whistle, and there is some hope even of getting religion, 
 or at least of not losing the little that you have. 
 
 He tells you the kind of house which this religion 
 inherits, how it grew, and was painted or colored. 
 
 "That soft lead-gray, less dark beneath the eaves, 
 Which the slow brush of wind and weather leaves, 
 The ample roof sloped backward to the ground 
 And vassal lean-tos gathered thickly round, 
 Patched on, as sire or son had felt the need, 
 Like chance growths sprouting from the old roof s seed: 
 Just as about a yellow pine tree spring 
 Its rough-barked darlings in a filial ring, 
 But the great chimney was the central thought 
 Whose gravitation through the cluster wrought, 
 
 For tis not styles far-fetched from Greece or Rome, 
 But just the Fireside that can make a home." 
 
 Contrasted with this "broad-shouldered, kindly and 
 debonair" style of building as the fathers built - 
 with the great square chimney in the middle, are the 
 shaky, 
 
 "Spindly things of modern style, 
 Like pins stuck through to stay the card-board pile." 
 
of on abar 243 
 
 And as for the interiors of these "card-houses," he de 
 scribes one thus: 
 
 "There was a parlor in the house, best room, 
 To make you shudder with its prudish gloom. 
 The furniture stood round with such an air 
 There seemed an old maid s ghost in every chair. 
 Too snugly proper for a world of sin, 
 Like boys on whom the minister conies in. 
 The table fronting you with icy stare 
 Tried to look witless that its legs were bare, 
 While the black sofa with its horse-hair pall 
 Gloomed like the bier for comfort s funeral." 
 
 From this dreadful spot which, I assure you, is not 
 an exaggerated or untrue description of the parlor or 
 "best room" in many New England houses, thirty or 
 forty years ago the poet fled to the tavern where 
 else could he go? and 
 
 "Shall I confess? The tavern s only Lar 
 Seemed (be not shocked) its homely featured bar. 
 Here snapped a fire of beechen logs, that bred 
 Strange fancies in its embers golden-red, 
 And nursed the loggerhead where hissing dip, 
 Timed by nice instinct, creamed the mug of flip, 
 Which made from mouth to mouth its genial round 
 Nor left one nature wholly winter-bound. 
 Hence dropt the tinkling coal all mellow-ripe 
 From Uncle Reuben s talk-extinguished pipe; 
 Hence rayed the heat as from an indoor sun 
 That wooed forth many a shoot of rustic fun. 
 Here Ezra ruled as king by right divine, 
 No other face had such a wholesome shine; 
 No laugh like his so full of honest cheer, 
 Above the rest it crowed like Chanticleer." 
 
 I cannot go on with the inventory of all the excellent 
 qualities of this king of landlords; suffice it to quote 
 the end, where the poet again, unconsciously no doubt, 
 in describing what he likes, is drawing his own portrait. 
 
244 J&emorial Bolume 
 
 "A natural man with all his instincts fresh, 
 Not buzzing helpless in Reflection s mesh, 
 Firm on its feet stood his broad-shouldered mind, 
 As bluffly honest as a north-west wind. 
 Hard-headed and soft-hearted, you d scarce meet 
 A kinder mixture of the shrewd and sweet." 
 
 I should say there is hardly anywhere a better 
 description of Mr. Lowell than in these six lines; he 
 is his own Boniface in the world of books and of men, 
 keeping open house with a mind hospitable to all 
 knowledge and all learners or seekers after knowledge 
 who came knocking at his door. To pass an evening 
 with Lowell was indeed an entertainment which no 
 royal Boniface could offer. For with an eye to char 
 acter" and to the "comic weaknesses" of men, his 
 mind has become a veritable museum and "old 
 curosity shop" of oddities and incidents, which you 
 are never tired of hearing. It is a right store of 
 "Yankee notions" which, in the generosity of his spirit, 
 the owner keeps not for gain or profit to himself, but, 
 as it seems, for the pure fun of the thing, and for the 
 entertainment of guest or friend. One could not be 
 five minutes with Lowell, but he was sure to bring out 
 some oddity of humor or character, or to tell a good 
 story, or to utter some quaint and original saying. 
 We know there are a sort of stories, which pass from 
 hand to hand, or say from mouth to mouth, ancient 
 and mouldy Joe Millers dropt in the alms-bucket of 
 wit, because, like bad pennies, they do not keep, and will 
 not otherwise circulate. Mr. Lowell never deals in 
 such. His wit is a constant surprise, it is new, and has 
 all the charm and unexpectedness of genius. If he 
 tells an old story, he makes it new by his manner of 
 telling. Then, too, he has such a prodigal wit and 
 
of ^&tt atoar 245 
 
 humor, it is no beggar s wallet that is opened to you, 
 but the treasury of a prince. Between him and his 
 friend, Oliver Wendell Holmes, whose wit, tho as 
 abundant, is of another kind and quality from Mr. 
 Lowell s, it is impossible to sit still and not roar with 
 laughter. You, of course, remember that famous 
 ballad of the Doctor, who declares at the end, that he 
 "dares not be as funny as he can." Lowell, on the 
 contrary, is more like his own Undine in Beaver 
 Brook," and the listener like the miller, is not aware 
 of the intellectual toil and research, the mere scholar 
 ship expended in collecting so many rarities. He 
 
 ". . . . dreams not at what cost 
 
 The grinding mill-stones hum and whirl, 
 Nor how, for every turn are lost 
 Armfuls of diamond and of pearl." 
 
 In some respects Mr. Lowell s wit and humor have 
 been a disadvantage to him as a poet in the popular 
 esteem, for, just as a pronounced wit or jester in the 
 House is not credited with the actual wisdom and 
 statesmanship which he possesses, so, men will persist 
 in not seeing a great and genuine poet in a man who is 
 always wearing the cap and bells of the jester in rhyme. 
 The truth is, Mr. Lowell s poetry is overloaded with 
 conceits. He is like the tree called the rock-maple, 
 sound at the core, and full of sweetness, but at the 
 same time very knotty, and knurly. It makes his 
 poetry the ( gnarled and unwedgable" problem of 
 critics. Compared to Bryant or Longfellow, whose 
 grain is clear and straight as pine or cedar, Mr. Lowell 
 does not make one simple and uniform impression, and 
 while fully as original and not below either of the elder 
 bards in natural endowment, his mind is so choked with 
 
246 temoriai Bolume 
 
 knowledge and with continually new impressions, that 
 he finds it far more difficult than they did to hold to 
 his natural note, or, in a word, to be himself. For, 
 though it may sound like treason to say it, besides 
 his own true and immortal note Mr. Lowell has every 
 body s note he is the winged mimic and mocking 
 bird of genius. 
 
 In a ruder age, and before a rustic audience, with 
 his wonderful power of mimicry, he would have played 
 the part of a jongleur, or, if his figure had allowed him, 
 he would have made the most extravagant of Pan 
 taloons. But I sometimes wish that he were neither 
 a mimic, a satirist, nor a wit. He cannot, of course, 
 help the crime of being witty, but his indulgence in 
 satire and in the habit of criticism has, in my opinion, 
 greatly injured the tone and quality of his poetry. It 
 also, I think, made it more and increasingly difficult 
 for him to write poetry. Of course, I do not know this 
 to be so, or that the great rarity of Mr. Lowell s verse 
 in recent years has any other cause or reason for it than 
 the nature of his occupations. But the existence in 
 him of two fully developed and almost contradictory 
 faculties, the critical and the poetical, the productivity 
 of the latter in his earlier years, and the preponderance 
 of critical writing, prose essays and the like, in his 
 latter age, seems to favor the supposition. It may be, 
 with the growth of years and a cultivated taste, that 
 Mr. Lowell grew so fastidious and so exigent in his 
 demand to reach a high and yet higher standard in 
 poetry, and finding that his poetic faculty was more 
 rarely appealed to, his muse less responsive than for 
 merly, and possibly less equal to the demands made 
 upon her, that Mr. Lowell has concluded to abandon 
 
of on afrat 247 
 
 poetry, and henceforth to write nothing but prose 
 essays and criticism. If so, I, for one, deplore his 
 resolution. 
 
 I remember distinctly the feeling of pain and loss 
 that came over me when, so far back as the spring of 
 1867, Mr. Lowell announced through the Atlantic 
 Monthly that he should never again appear as the 
 author of any more "Biglow Papers." Yet less than 
 a year before that he had written the noble "Com 
 memoration Ode," and only a few years later he put 
 forth the "Cathedral" and a little volume entitled 
 "Under the Willows." There was nothing in these to 
 justify any distrust of failing powers on the part of the 
 poet, and the public welcome was hearty and in 
 stantaneous. Then came, not long afterwards, the 
 poet s appointment to an important place in the diplo 
 matic service. Being as he was, from crown to sole? 
 an American and a Yankee as genuinely Yankee as 
 he was completely American I have always looked 
 upon him as the best and truest representative of 
 Democracy which this Western World ever sent to the 
 Courts of Europe. But much as I have admired Mr. 
 Lowell s political course, and proud as we all are of the 
 lustre he has shed upon diplomacy and letters abroad 
 and of the sturdy manhood which supported both, I 
 feel now, that none too soon for the good of American 
 letters and for the poet s permanent fame, the :ime 
 had come to wash himself of affairs and to devote the 
 remnant of his days in undivided allegiance to his 
 first love to Poesy, in truth! 
 
 He cannot, and he ought not, to forget his calling, 
 nor the voice 
 
 "Obeyed at eve, obeyed at Prime." 
 
248 Memorial Volume 
 
 Great is the need of him now to exercise his poetic 
 faculty. For whom have we left? Emerson is gone 
 and Longfellow is gone. Dana and Bryant went 
 before. Holmes and Whittier have not gone, but they 
 totter on the verge. If they occasionally strike a note 
 with something of the old-time fire and sweetness, it 
 seems like a reminiscence, not prophecy. Yes, the 
 Bards of America are gone, or going. As Vaughan, the 
 Silurist, said of his early friends, so might Lowell say 
 of his brother bards: "They have all gone into that 
 world of light," and I alone sit lingering here. They 
 have gone from whence no sound of the Master s harp, 
 no tremble of the echoing lyre, floats down to our listen 
 ing ears. How forlorn it leaves us in a world without 
 hope, and an age without inspiration! Life un 
 sweetened by the Muse has a bitter taste in the 
 mouth. We seem to be standing on the edge, and 
 already advancing into one of those immeasurable 
 sand deserts of time which divide the most fruitful 
 centuries with intervening spaces of intellectual barren 
 ness and exhaustion. As if one should hear, for a time, 
 the music of the spheres and after that, grating discords 
 of the earth. 
 
 As far as poetry is concerned, we are undoubtedly 
 living in a barren time. We have exchanged romance 
 for reality, and inspiration for mechanism. 
 
 It is the era of the advent of science, of the Annual 
 Cyclopedia, and of useful facts. The day of Oratory, 
 it is often said, is gone by. And so, I fear, it is with 
 Poetry. Science is the new Jove, and his reign prom 
 ises to be as hard, as bitter, and tyrannical as the old. 
 How shall poets endure the reign? Against it cry out 
 the eternal instincts, longings and aspirations of the 
 human soul. 
 
of ^n afoar 249 
 
 Poesy, like Prometheus, snatching fire from heaven, 
 is all that feeds, cherishes and keeps alive the immortal 
 spirit in man. How can you reconcile Poesy with 
 Science, her most inveterate foe? Science has feet of 
 clay, but the head of Poesy is * crowned with spiritual 
 fire and touching other worlds." Shall the feet rebel 
 against the head? or shall they even reverse their 
 positions? That would be to treat humanity like 
 St. Peter, who was crucified head downwards. Shall 
 Jove again nail Prometheus to the Caucasus of his 
 frosty scorn ? And what can wit avail if it does not help 
 us, does not liberate, nor soften with humane letters 
 the rigor of the time? What, after all, are wit and 
 satire but the crackling of thorns under a pot? Does 
 it boil the poor man s dinner, or make him feel more 
 comfortable while eating it? 
 
 And pray, what good does criticism do? My 
 feeling is, Throw criticism to the dogs I ll none of it. 
 Yes, throw it to the dogs of the Press, I mean for 
 they are the true Cynics, always snarling and biting. 
 But no poet, who respects himself or his calling, ever 
 descends to criticism. Mr. Longfellow never did. 
 Mr. Bryant sometimes did, and was so much the less a 
 poet thereby. For my part, I have never forgiven 
 Bryant for taking an editor s chair, instead of taking 
 the laurel wreath from the hand of Apollo. It was 
 like giving up inspiration for brandy-and-water. 
 Bryant should have given Graylock a tongue, as Byron 
 did the Alps: but he chose to discuss the tariff. Others 
 were found who could do that as well as he, but only 
 Bryant could write Thanatopsis. So Mr. Lowell 
 has written the keenest satire, the most trenchant 
 criticism, the most able, scholarly and entertaining 
 essays of any American writer. 
 
250 Memorial Volume 
 
 But a single poem of his perhaps a single verse - 
 will outline all the prose he has ever written. 
 
 "The poet s mind is a temple; to make it a thoroughfare 
 is to make the fane profane it is soilure and profanation. % 
 
 Mr. Lowell, at home and abroad, has bought golden 
 opinions of all sorts of people, but when the gloss is 
 worn off how will he sustain his borrowed dignity? 
 If he goes to sleep upon his laurels he will find, on 
 awaking, the wreath which he has worn so well and 
 gracefully will have faded, and only the "garland and 
 singing robes" of Apollo will serve him; nor these, 
 unless he resume the great office which he formerly 
 laid down. He is now better qualified than ever before, 
 and then, also, the great, golden opportunity of his 
 life is come. My conception of a poet is not that of a 
 pale and interesting youth, but of a magnificent, gray- 
 headed man, with the eye of an eagle and the fresh 
 heart of a boy. Or it is that of a cosmic intelligence 
 dominated by a brain-heart of a human, the universal 
 soul and sympathies of a Shelley or a Shakespere, a 
 Plato or a Virgil, a Homer or a Hugo. Sophocles, at 
 the age of eighty, was not too old to begin a new work, 
 and the marionet play of "Faust" murmured to the last 
 in the mighty mind of Goethe. They were about their 
 business. Wherever a man is bent upon the accom 
 plishment of a great work, time and opportunity are 
 never, or rarely ever, lacking. Dante lived to com 
 plete the Divine Comedy, and Prospero did not break 
 his magic wand, or bury his book, till their creator had 
 retired from the stage after writing the Tempest. 
 Power was given them to finish their work. But they 
 knew no more of the mystery of the genius that pos- 
 
of f ofm atoar 251 
 
 sessed them than, probably, we know to-day. Genius 
 is taking pains, says Carlyle. It is the power to toil 
 terribly says another. But words nor phrases can 
 explain genius to us. We only know it when it appears. 
 And how precious it is, we know by its exceeding rarity. 
 Enough that Mr. Lowell has it. To the endowment of 
 original genius fortified by study and travel, he adds 
 the discipline of a university, not at Cambridge only ? 
 where, as student and professor he has lived for more 
 than forty years, but in that greater university of the 
 world which graduates the men of action and the men 
 of affairs, which produces the senior wrangler in pol 
 itics, the double-firsts in war and trade, the social 
 dukes and leaders of opinion, railroad kings and mer 
 chant princes, and the patent nobility of letters, of 
 science, and of art. For, as no knowledge can come 
 amiss to the poet, so neither can the education of 
 circumstances, or any experience of mankind and the 
 world. 
 
 "Sence I begun to scribble rhyme, 
 
 I tell ye wut, I hain t been foolin : 
 The parson s books, life, death, an time 
 
 Hev took some trouble with my schoolin : 
 Nor th airth don t git put out with me, 
 
 Thet love her z though she wuz a woman; 
 Why, th ain t a bird upon the tree 
 
 But half forgives my bein human." 
 
 No, there is not, nor is there anything in the world, 
 
 "Sights innercent as babes on knee 
 
 Peaceful ez eyes o pastur d cattle, : 
 
 Which does not appeal to the heart of a poet. 
 
 But the poet who is also a seer and sacred, as the 
 bards of old, must hold aloof from the world s business, 
 nor meddle with its affairs, the better in order to attend 
 
252 lemorial Volume 
 
 strictly to his own. He should have knowledge and 
 insight into all things, but the care and management 
 of none. Above all, he should be irrevocably bound to 
 the Muse, and everlastingly vowed to her service. 
 For she alone is sovereign over all his life and actions. 
 And it is no light offense to commit lese-majeste against 
 the Muse! Her smile is life to him, her frown is death. 
 This high and haughty love admits no rival, and no 
 interruption. Infidelities are sternly punished. His 
 neglect of her is repaid with scorn, his indifference with 
 contempt and speedy oblivion. Favor indeed may be 
 lost without fault, and restoration then is easy. It is 
 usually made contingent on good behavior, and on 
 return to allegiance. But wilful disobedience, con 
 tumacy, is severely punished. Nor is it less so because, 
 to speak harmoniously, the muse is a woman, subject 
 to caprices, and female sovereigns are, of all others, the 
 most easily offended and the hardest to placate, or to 
 forgive. Celestial anger to celestial minds. But, to 
 quit metaphor and ambiguous expressions, the plain 
 prose of it is that the man who habitually affronts his 
 genius and runs counter to the divine purpose in his 
 making must suffer the consequences. If he be a 
 poet born, as well as made, and allow himself to do 
 that which others can do as well or better, and he 
 neglects that which he alone can do better than others, 
 he will lose then his native gift, he will be disinherited 
 of his birthright, he will suffer degeneration of the 
 poetic faculty, a fatness of wit, dulness of sight and 
 taste, and hearing, and at length, silence, spiritual 
 death, the mouldering lyre. 
 
 But if there is a sadder sight than a fallen roof-tree, 
 or a ruined castle, it is the sight of a man who has 
 
of ofn atoar 253 
 
 outlived his soul. Mr. Lowell will never wrong him 
 self, his friends, or the world s music in that way. Why 
 should he? He is apparently full of life and vigor, he 
 has health and competence, and a perspective of many 
 days yet before him. And they are his best days 
 the sweet light and golden air, the halcyon seas, the 
 soft malancholy, the settled calm of autumnal weather 
 - the bright and beautiful Indian summer days of a 
 retired life and leisure. 
 
 Has he any regrets or sorrows? Undoubtedly. 
 "Sorrow is the inseparable companion of man. But 
 where Love has once trodden at his side, and has only 
 flown a little before, Sorrow comes and softly takes the 
 vacant place, and so insensibly adapts herself to the 
 ways of man that ere he is aware of it he looks upon the 
 face of Sorrow as a friend. Faithful indeed are the 
 wounds of this friend. And if he also be faithful he 
 will discover, in the end, that he has walked with an 
 angel unaware." 
 
 "And as it might happen that a man seeking silver 
 should, beyond his expectations, find gold, which a 
 hidden chance presents to him, not perhaps without 
 Divine direction: so I, who sought for consolation, 
 found not only a remedy for my tears, but also acquaint 
 ance with authors, with knowledge, and with books." 
 
 BROWNING S ITALIAN JOURNEYS 
 
 The interest which attaches to "haunts and homes" 
 of famous poets induces me to transcribe here certain 
 notes, made originally for my own convenience, in 
 keeping track of the poet s wanderings over northern 
 
254 Memorial 
 
 France and Italy, after the death of his wife at Florence 
 in 1861. 
 
 The event which broke up his household, and made 
 him from that time forth, to some extent, a homeless 
 man and a wanderer, marks the beginning of that pro 
 found spiritual nostalgia which, from sheer restlessness, 
 drove him to seek rest in solitude and in work wherever 
 he could find it. He sought rest and recreation where 
 Dante had sought it before him, in the cloistral solitude 
 of the Appenines, and with the same result. He 
 plunged into the distractions of great cities, and buried 
 himself for months at a time in some obscure seaport 
 town, some fishing village of the Breton folk, or inland, 
 among the simple Norman peasantry who served him 
 at once as background and material for his poetic 
 dramas. It is to these excursions and summer resi 
 dences that we owe the Red Cotton Nightcap Coun 
 try." the "Inn Album," "La Saisiaz," "Two Poets 
 of Croissiac," "Aristophanes Apology," and others. 
 His teeming brain was never still, and his wealth of 
 poetic material and suggestion depended largely upon 
 this shifting of the point of view. And so he alter 
 nated from his "at home" in the London season to 
 these annual periodical visits either to the French 
 coast of Brittany and Normandy, or to his old Italian 
 haunts, the ground of his first love and happy marriage 
 with the woman who taught him that 
 
 "To learn so simple a lesson, 
 
 Need one go to Paris or Rome? 
 That the many make the household, 
 But tis one that makes the home." 
 
 For many years he seems to vibrate between London 
 and Venice, till a third and more potent attraction 
 
of tofw atoar 255 
 
 came between, so that he hovered, as it were, midway, 
 suspended over one spot which fixed his wavering in 
 clination and determined the choice of what was 
 meant to be his last refuge, as the poet had, indeed, 
 performed his last pilgrimage on earth. Prospicel 
 It was a lovely spot in the Euganean Hills, commanding 
 an extensive view of the plains of Lombardy, and 
 happily framed in a vast horizon comprehending the 
 picturesque of mediaeval art and nature, the theatre, 
 also of many renowned actions, sieges and battlefields 
 of historic note in ancient and modern times. But, it 
 so happened that when the last obstacle to possession 
 was overcome, and the title deed lay ready to be 
 signed, the poet was already past, or passing to the 
 unseen world. I remember, as a curious coincidence, 
 that on the Christmas eve of 1889 I was lying in bed 
 and holding in hand a new book which was the season 
 able gift of an old friend. The volume, "Asolando," 
 was the last which the poet ever penned, and it was 
 named for the place which Robert Browning was not 
 to inherit in this world. The memory of this incident 
 is the more vivid, because I was then suffering from a 
 painful malady, but it did not prevent my composing 
 a sonnet on the last yearning and soaring of the "Old 
 Eagle," as he passed out of sight and beyond the 
 night: it was the I2th of December, and the English 
 papers which I had were full of the accounts of that 
 memorable passing. 
 
 In the following narrative, which is patched up from 
 various sources, but mainly from the "Letters of Robert 
 Browning," by Mrs. Sutherland Orr, no attempt is 
 made to cover the entire twenty years wanderings of 
 our Ulyssean poet over Italy, any farther than as they 
 
256 Hemorial Bolume 
 
 may be deemed to hold the psychological moment of 
 interest to the casual reader and observer. But the 
 reader is, at least, expected to trust me, absolutely, 
 with holding of the true divining-rod of Poesy, for his 
 own right guidance in these devious wanderings 
 among the bridle-paths of Italy, as well as in the tall 
 and great dark wood, salvaggia oscura, of Robert 
 Browning s Works" for the descriptive passages, not 
 many but much, illustrative of his journeyings. 
 To begin with, one must premise that 
 
 VENICE AND ASOLO 
 
 were the two foci of attraction. In either place he 
 bargained for a house where he could take refuge for 
 his contentment, but was not destined to find it in 
 either. "You don t know Venice? Well, open your 
 eyes with a big surprise, when I inform you that I 
 have purchased the Manzoni palace here, on the 
 Canal Grande, of its owner, Marchese Montecucculi, 
 an Austrian and an absentee." The palazzo Manzoni 
 is situate on the Grand Canal and is described by 
 Ruskin as "a perfect and very rich example of Byzan 
 tine Renaissance: its warm marbles are magnificent." 
 And again, "an exquisite example of Byzantine Renais 
 sance as applied to domestic architecture." So testify 
 "The Stones of Venice." 
 
 But, the Austrian gentleman, whose property it was, 
 at the last moment put forward unexpected, not to say, 
 unreasonable, claims; and his (Browning s) son, who 
 remained on the spot, having been informed on com 
 petent authority that the foundations of the house 
 were insecure, withdrew from the negotiations. 
 
of ^ljn atoar 257 
 
 There was one other palace of great interest to Robert 
 Browning in Venice; it was the palace of the Countess 
 Mocenigo, which Byron occupied. "She (the Count 
 ess) is a charming widow since two years young, 
 pretty, and of the prettiest manners: she showed us 
 all the rooms Byron had lived in, and I wrote my 
 name in her album on the desk (which he) himself 
 wrote the last canto of Ch. Harold and Beppo upon." 
 
 Robert Browning daily walked with his sister, as 
 he did in the mountains, for exercise, and the pleasure 
 it afforded him. He explored Venice in all directions, 
 and learned to know its many points of beauty and 
 interest, as those cannot who believe it is only to be 
 seen from a gondola: and when he had visited its 
 every corner, he fell back on a favorite stroll along the 
 River to the Public Garden and back again. 
 
 Later still, when a friend s gondola was always at 
 hand, and air and sunshine were the one thing need 
 ful, he would be carried to the Lido, and take a long 
 stretch on its farther shore. 
 
 ALPINE RETREATS 
 
 My sister and I used to walk for a couple of hours 
 up a mountain road of the most lovely description, and 
 stop at the summit, where we looked down upon the 
 minute hamlet of St. Pierre d Intrement, even more 
 secluded than our own; then we got back to our own 
 aforesaid. And in this Paradisial place, they found, 
 yesterday week, a murdered man." (For details of 
 this tragedy and its motif, see "Life and Letters of 
 Robert Browning," pp. 335-36. And also, "The Ring 
 and the Book.") Writing, evidently, from the same 
 
258 Jttemoriai Volume 
 
 place, Sept. 3, 1882, to Mrs. Fitz-Gerald, Robert 
 Browning says: "It is the loveliest country I ever 
 had experience of, and we shall prolong our stay per 
 haps." (He had accepted an invitation to spend the 
 month of October with Mr. Cholmondeley at his villa 
 in Ischia, but the engagement was broken off, in con 
 sequence of the death of a young lady, a guest of the 
 host, she having imprudently attempted the ascent of 
 a dangerous mountain without a guide, and lost her 
 life in the experiment.) 
 
 LA SAISIAZ 
 
 August 17, 1877, writing to Mrs. Fitz-Gerald, 
 "How lovely," he says, "is this place in its solitude and 
 seclusion, with its trees and shrubs and flowers, and 
 above all, its live mountain stream, which supplies 
 three fountains and two delightful baths, a marvel of 
 delicate delight framed in with trees I bathe there 
 twice a day and then what wonderful views from 
 the chalet on every side! Geneva lying under us, 
 with its lake and the whole plain bounded by the Jura 
 and our own Saleve, which latter seems rather close 
 behind our house, and yet takes a hard hour and a half 
 to ascend. All this you can imagine, since you know 
 the environs of the town; the peace and quiet move me. 
 And I fancy I shall drowse out the two months or 
 more, doing no more serious work than reading and 
 that is virtuous renunciation of the glorious views to 
 my right here as I sit aerially like Euripides, and 
 see the clouds come and go, and the view change in 
 correspondence with them." 
 
of oJjn atoar 259 
 
 This letter will bear comment. Mr. Browning was 
 more than quiescent during this stay in the Savoyard 
 mountains (southern slope of the Alps). He was 
 unusually depressed, which might be due, in part, to 
 that special oppressive heat of the Swiss valleys, which 
 ascends with them to almost their highest level. 
 When he said that the Saleve seemed close behind the 
 house, he was saying in other words, that the sun beat 
 back from, and the air was intercepted by, it. 
 
 A touch of autumnal freshness had hardly crept into 
 the atmosphere of the Saleve, when a moral thunder 
 bolt fell on the little group of persons domiciled at its 
 base; Miss Egerton-Smith, in what had seemed for 
 her unusually good health, died in the act of preparing 
 for a mountain excursion with her friends. Mr. 
 Browning was for the moment paralyzed by the shock. 
 (See the dedicatory verses to A. E. S. in "La Saisiaz".) 
 This poem contains, besides its personal references and 
 associations, elements of distinctive biographical in 
 terest. It is the author s first, as also last, attempt to 
 reconstruct his Hope of Immortality, by a rational 
 process based entirely on the facts of his own knowledge 
 and consciousness God and the human soul; and 
 while the very assumption of these facts, as basis for 
 reasoning, places him at issue with scientific thought, 
 there is, in his way of handling them, a tribute to the 
 scientific spirit, foreshadowed in the beautiful epilogue 
 to Dramatis Personce, but of which there is no trace in 
 his earlier religious work. (Life and Letters, p. 318.) 
 It is conclusive both in form and matter as to his 
 heterodox attitude towards Christianity. (See Death 
 in the Desert," "Christmas Eve," and "Easter Day.") 
 
 JOHN SAVARY. 
 
260 Memorial 
 
 OUR "ANNUS MIRABILIS" 
 
 [WRITTEN BY JOHN SAVARY FOR THE SUNDAY REPUBLICAN.] 
 
 I 
 
 Since Dryden wrote before the age of cables, 
 Whatever struck his fancy apt to find 
 
 In one year s happenings its remarkables, 
 What hinders me, a bard unknown, of mind 
 To follow in his footsteps far behind, 
 
 For treasure-trove along the shore sublime, 
 
 Saved from the wrecks and deluges of time? 
 
 There met me one "They Say," a creature tame, 
 Plumed with a myriad plumes and all for hire, 
 
 The avant-courier of Common Fame: 
 
 Defoe, or Dryden, who, instructed by her, 
 Wrote of Dutch wars and purifying fire, 
 
 Shall be my model, compassing in rhyme 
 
 The brief abstract and chronicle of the time. 
 
 Where to begin? since all men near or far 
 
 On safe ground meeting, commonplace, by chance 
 
 Talk of the weather, its phenomena, 
 
 With due regard to time and circumstance, 
 So here my sable banner to advance, 
 
 I multiply the storm-wind by the cloud 
 
 That sings and weaves of mariners the shroud. 
 
 I call to mind among a thousand more 
 
 Such scenes, one single circumstance, of power 
 
 To stamp itself an image of that shore 
 
 Of wreck and ravage, the dark midnight hour 
 Of tempest singing over roof and tower, 
 
 And, dawn-descried off Hatteras, afar 
 
 One sailor riding on his lashed lone spar. 
 
of ^tt afcar 201 
 
 What storms, what shipwrecks, what heart-rending 
 
 blows 
 Have marked this year of memorable theme! 
 
 Search through the files, and what do they disclose? 
 Tornado, tempest, cloudburst, and the learn 
 Of the red levin when the rack a-stream 
 
 Has raked the highlands, lashed the lowland plains, 
 
 And drowned whole villages in torrential rains. 
 
 Here, so to say, upon my native heath 
 
 The bolt descended, and the breath was done, 
 
 Gone from the bodies of six men beneath 
 One roof, and lo! when summertide was on 
 The Capital, broad streets like rivers run 
 
 Potomac-wards. The storm along the shore 
 
 Submerged Winchester, unroofed Baltimore. 
 
 And the Metropolis, the Magdalene 
 Of cities greatest, foulest yet sublime, 
 
 For thirty hours submitted to be clean 
 Of outward stain, amidst the awful time 
 Of purification from her sluttish slime: 
 
 Wrapt in a foggy cloud, she stood to wring 
 
 Her watered silks out, wet and shivering. 
 
 The Jersey meadows, overflowed, were mown 
 Later this year, the live stock swim or drown. 
 
 Tall corn was lodged in country places grown; 
 Washouts occurred, and bridges eke went down. 
 Farmhouses from the crumbling banks that crown 
 
 Schuylkill and Delaware, sailed off entire; 
 
 Seven kine went whirling out in barn or byre! 
 
262 Memorial Volume 
 
 Enough of "moving accidents" like these, 
 The reader will recall a thousand more. 
 
 Each tells the tidings that he hears or sees 
 
 Of drouth, fire, flood, and many a shipwrackt shore. 
 For fear I may be set down as a bore, 
 
 Or garrulous old man, I fly the track, 
 
 And just for one thing only I hark back. 
 
 The altered seasons as interpreters 
 
 Showed the distempered world; March not so 
 
 cold 
 As April was; May drouth; then overcoats and furs 
 
 And fires in June. Summer and winter rolled 
 
 Together made concatenation bold, 
 As when Titania to her Oberon tost 
 Discord, the ground of all, at Nature s cost. 
 
 What if I told you hoary-headed frost 
 Fell in the fresh lap of the crimson rose"? 
 
 That late as August Denver played the host 
 To entertain our Lady of the Snows? 
 And one assured me well who Norway knows, 
 
 He passed a frozen lake in July; led 
 
 Later to view Vesuvius roaring-red. 
 
 So Goethe saw it, sitting up all night, 
 
 (Ah, this was not in A. D. 79). 
 Those buried cities flourished once, the site 
 
 Of Saint Pierre as gay as its own clime, 
 
 Recalls the latest tragedy of time, 
 And the most awful, clothing in its red, 
 Red burial-ash that city of the dead. 
 
of on J>abar 263 
 
 The crime of Nature is the crime of man, 
 
 For she takes on with us in thought and deed; 
 
 We dress ourselves but in her looks, we scan 
 The gray November world when we have need; 
 We clothe ourselves in her dismantled weed. 
 
 So Nature shows by her inquietude 
 
 Man s world is out of joint, as I conclude. 
 
 II 
 
 Tell me, O Zeit-giest, Spirit of the Age! 
 
 Break forth, an if thou wilt, in prophesying; 
 Mock the sad augurs when they would presage. 
 
 But tell me true, Are faith and honor dying? 
 
 Some say white Faith has left the world, and sighing 
 Hope for a season bade the earth farewell! 
 Oh, in what land and age do we then dwell? 
 
 An age of great prosperity, says one, 
 
 To which another chiming in replies, 
 The fairest land that is beneath the sun," 
 
 What more do you want? More manhood which 
 decries 
 
 Injustice, and the piled-up wrongs that rise 
 From laws iniquitous; what good to me 
 Your land just rotten with "prosperity!" 
 
 Look at the armies of the unemployed, 
 
 Tramping the streets of our great cities aye, 
 
 A thousand petty industries destroyed 
 To make one monster combination pay; 
 A million workers out of work to-day, 
 
 And the "stand-patters" here to legislate: 
 
 Fine times are these, a country up-to-date! 
 
264 lemorial Bolume 
 
 Useless old men, at forty-five deemed old, 
 
 Knocked out, thrown down, are bundled off to bed, 
 
 One sees the rapid pace, the rush-line bold 
 Held at all costs, and eke the falling dead, 
 Friend or acquaintance; in our streets the red 
 
 Autos, with all rules of the road at strife, 
 
 Add a new terror here to human life. 
 
 The frugal life, as all employment fades, 
 Becomes a question of the what and how. 
 
 When boys excluded are from learning trades, 
 Divorced from earth and following the plow, 
 Who eats the bread of independence now? 
 
 For which, oh, tyranny! and oh for shame 1 
 
 Our labor unions mostly are to blame. 
 
 Life is not safe in our great cities when 
 
 E en mourning friends and relatives must waive 
 
 Their farewells to the dead, or going then 
 On the last journey even to the grave, 
 To be molested by some wretched knave 
 
 Who stops the hearse wherein the corpse is drawn, 
 
 And shroud has it the union label on? 
 
 Betwixt these unions and the growing vast 
 Masses of capital that move on your 
 
 Highways of trade and commerce to the last 
 Stronghold of power to win the kohinoor 
 Of laws that grind the faces of the poor, 
 
 What chance for all such as left standing be, 
 
 Betwixt this devil and that still deep sea? 
 
of on atoar 265 
 
 in 
 
 This year s October term a. suit was brought 
 In Northern Securities Company case. 
 
 By People in the U. S. court of last resort 
 To test the right of "merger" on the base 
 Of anti-trust law, which, upon its face 
 
 Forbids such action in restraint of trade; 
 
 The case yet pending, the vast issue made. 
 
 The gambling dens of Wall street, and the wheat 
 Pit in Chicago, have one thing to fear; 
 
 Knowing the government is hard to beat, 
 They dread the touch of that Ithuriel spear 
 Which makes discovery of their plots appear. 
 
 State Legislatures they may brush aside, 
 
 But not intimidate, nor buy, nor bribe 
 
 Justice that sits supreme; but when that is 
 O erswayed by power or money in the scale, 
 
 Gone the last vestige of our liberties. 
 
 When that shall fail us, Uncle Sam will hail 
 A master, and plutocracy prevail. 
 
 If that should be far off yet fall the year! 
 
 Omnipotent corruption will be here. 
 
 Of social customs and of manners which 
 Have deep significance and mightier power 
 
 Than laws themselves, the passing year is rich 
 In memorable trophies; it has struck the hour 
 Of freedom for divorcees, and the dower 
 
 Of princely fortunes unto dukes and earls, 
 
 Who stalk their game in rich American girls. 
 
266 Jftemorial Bolume 
 
 One such, enough of international marriage, 
 To point the moral and adorn the tale. 
 
 And more than enough to note the shocking carnage 
 Of New York women, whom the altar rail 
 Excluded, but without restraint or pale, 
 
 Like birds of prey who fight for places, perch 
 
 Upon the bride mobbed on her way to church. 
 
 Take it for all in all, one reader knows 
 
 No rest nor peace from seeing year by year 
 
 How crime and poverty like a snowball grows; 
 If peace and wealth keep pace, yet all a-rear 
 What shapes of woe and wickedness appear! 
 
 The desperate shifts, the starving hopes, the giving 
 
 In, at the last, to rob men for a living! 
 
 The list of murders and of suicides; 
 
 The railroad train held up by bold outlaws; 
 Boy bandits and girl thieves, graft, homicides, 
 
 Lynchings both North and South, to seek the 
 cause? 
 
 Some trace it to our monstrous tariff laws: 
 So multitudinous the evil is, 
 No all-sufficient cause, not even this! 
 
 Twas equal, though, to one fine piece of work. 
 We promised Cuba, some years back to be 
 
 Her great good friend, nor "our plain duty" shirk; 
 Her sponsor to the world for all that she 
 Required to live, from us who set her free. 
 
 A very tuppenny measure of relief 
 
 We offer grudgingly, too late, in brief. 
 
of of abar 267 
 
 It is as though a prosperous gentleman, 
 Having a world of things withal to do, 
 
 Said to an urchin, "Here, my little man," 
 Tossing a sixpence, when a dollar or two 
 Would set him up in business, "good for you!" 
 
 But no, our fine beet-sugar men declare 
 
 T would ruin them, for them alone forbear! 
 
 How was the Nation brought to this last phase 
 Of foul dishonor, when it backs and fills 
 
 At such vile stops! Suit Addison-Cato s phrase 
 To the altered case: Is there no bolt that thrills 
 Red with uncommon wrath for him who builds 
 
 His private fortune on the land s undoing? 
 
 Or his own greatness raises on its ruin! 
 
 IV 
 
 O vast vicissitudes! O world that was 
 
 In years before the flood! the now and then! 
 
 If I prefer the latter, tis because 
 
 I ve heard how once stout Cortez and his men 
 Stared, silent, from a peak in Darien." 
 
 And I may yet if this with that agrees - 
 
 Live to behold the marriage of the seas. 
 
 Science has brought the trolley and the tram, 
 But no great book this year in prose or verse. 
 
 One flying round the towers of Notre Dame 
 May thence have heard its organ to rehearse 
 The latest rhythm of the universe. 
 
 Wagner in music reaches the sublime, 
 
 And "Parsifal" is given at Christmas time. 
 
268 emotial Volume 
 
 To conquer men combine, and now afraid 
 Of mustering armies, organize a trust. 
 
 All necessaries under contribution laid, 
 Yield to almighty greed, for people must 
 To these tax-gatherers come "down with the dust." 
 
 And since men rob by law, they wink an eye 
 
 To Justice, and to Honor say good-by. 
 
 Want an example? look at U. S. Common, 
 Of "high finance" the last, best, surest way. 
 
 A steal so vast required of steel un-common 
 A pile of nerve, and power to get away 
 With thirty millions, more or less to-day. 
 
 Was it all water? no, life-blood, about 
 
 The hearts of all of them who were froze out." 
 
 If this is business, why, I will say nix, 
 
 Mirabile dictu ! fitting to a T 
 The brand-new specimen of our politics, 
 
 This wonder year of nineteen hundred three. 
 
 So much it means, I think, to you and me! 
 No wonder man and Nature both are bent 
 On outward signs of inward discontent. 
 
 Blow, then, you whirlwinds! hurricanoes, spout! 
 And fling your sulphurous and destroying blast, 
 
 Ye red volcanoes! so involve in doubt 
 
 The fate of human kind, which will outlast 
 The remnant of an age to men long past 
 
 The praying for. I look beyond these bars 
 
 To the still shining, everlasting stars. 
 
of Fon abat 269 
 
 NOVEMBER BIRTHDAYS 
 A MONTH OF DIVERS EMINENT PERSONAGES AND POETS 
 
 To THE EDITOR OF THE SUN Sir: The birthdays 
 of many celebrities occur during this month. On 
 November 7 fell the birthday of President Fallieres of 
 France, who did so much to preserve the peace of 
 Europe; November 9, that of King Edward of England; 
 November 3, that of his Majesty Mutsuhito of Japan; 
 November II, that of the King of Italy; November 15, 
 that of the young King of Portugal, whose lot had been 
 cast in troublesome times; November 12, that of Lord 
 Rayleigh, Chancellor of Cambridge University, who is 
 still a senior wrangler," although under his presidency 
 4 the factory" which made them has been closed; 
 November 22 is the anniversary of Justin McCarthy, 
 who notwithstanding his 87 years is a prominent figure 
 in English literature; November n is dedicated to Sir 
 William Schwenck Gilbert, who has made the world 
 "grow fat" with innocent merriment; November 30 
 is "Mark Twain" day. 
 
 No other month has given us so many sweet singers 
 as November. At least four of those prophets of the 
 beautiful" whose hymns are the heritage of the Church 
 of Christ first saw light in November: "Oh, for a 
 Closer Walk With God" by William Cowper, born 
 November 13, 1731; "Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me," 
 by Augustus Toplady, born November 4, 1740; "In 
 the Hour of Trial," by James Montgomery, born 
 November 4, 1771; "My Faith Looks Up to Thee," 
 by Ray Palmer, born November 12, 1808. 
 
 In the wider range of secular song there is a perfect 
 
270 emorial Bolume 
 
 galaxy of November bards: Schiller, Vondel, the 
 Shakespeare of the Dutch; Ewald, the Shakespeare of 
 the Danes; and Nicolas Boileau, who holds a well de 
 fined place in French literature, were born in November. 
 So too were Oliver Goldsmith, William Cullen Bryant, 
 Mark Akenside, William Shenstone, Thomas Chat- 
 terton, William Blake, "Owen Meredith," and Hans 
 Sachs, the shoemaker of Nuremberg. It was on 
 November 7 that the great Persian poet Jami was born 
 amid the snowy hills of Herat nearly 500 years ago. 
 Was it in this dreary month that the Mystic dedicated 
 his poem with the prologue: 
 
 Unfold, O God, the bud of hope. Disclose 
 From thy eternal Paradise one rose 
 Whose breath may flood my brain with odor while 
 The bud leaf liplets make my garden smile. 
 
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