« PreviousContinue »
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,
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.
Lo, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage,
Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends, An incarnation of fat dividends.
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,
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
A Psalm of Life.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
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
It is not always May.
For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
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,
The Golden Legend.
Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
A Metrical Essay.
The freeman casting with unpurchased hand
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the God of storms,
Yes, child of suffering, thou mayst well be sure, He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor!
And topples round the dreary west
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.
Fatima. St. 3.
O Love, O fire! once he drew
th 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.
Sweet is every sound,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;