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Marco Bozzaris.

your altars and your fires;
for the green graves of your sires;

God, and your native land!

One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.

Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days; None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.


Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined,

The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.



Lo, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage,
Holds its warped mirror to a gaping age.

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Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends, An incarnation of fat dividends.

Centennial Ode.

Stanza 22.

Behold! in Liberty's unclouded blaze

We lift our heads, a race of other days.

To my Cigar.

Yes, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctors' spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,
And lap me in delight.


A Psalm of Life.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting."

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.

*Life is short, and the art long.

HIPPOCRATES, (Aphorism I.)

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

The Light of Stars.

Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

It is not always May.

For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest!

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There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair.

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead.

The Golden Legend.

Time has laid his hand

Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

A Metrical Essay.

The freeman casting with unpurchased hand
The vote that shakes the turrets of the land.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky.

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the God of storms,
The lightning and the gale.


Yes, child of suffering, thou mayst well be sure, He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor!

In Memoriam.


And topples round the dreary west
A looming bastion fringed with fire.


'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all.

Fatima. St. 3.

O Love, O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul through
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

The Princess. Canto iv.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

Canto 7.

Sweet is every sound,

Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;

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