Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine,

It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
TOUSSAINT! the most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plow
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den,
O miserable chieftain where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and
skies:

There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.

And Rome's great altar smokes with gums to

sweeten

Her foulest gift to Heaven.

And while all Naples thrills with mute thanksgiving,

The court of England's queen For the dead monster so abhorred while living In mourning garb is seen.

With a true sorrow God rebukes that feigning;
By lone Edgbaston's side

Stands a great city in the sky's sad raining,
Bare-headed and wet-eyed!

Silent for once the restless hive of labor,
Save the low funeral tread,

Or voice of craftsman whispering to his neighbor
The good deeds of the dead.

For him no minster's chant of the immortals
Rose from the lips of sin;

Nomitered priest swung back the heavenly portals
To let the white soul in.

But Age and Sickness framed their tearful faces In the low hovel's door,

And prayers went up from all the dark by-places And Ghettos of the poor.

The pallid toiler and the negro chattel,
The vagrant of the street,

The human dice wherewith in games of battle
The lords of earth compete,

Touched with a grief that needs no outward draping,

All swelled the long lament, Of grateful hearts, instead of marble, shaping His viewless monument!

For never yet, with ritual pomp and splendor, In the long heretofore,

A heart more loyal, warm, and true, and tender, Has England's turf closed o'er.

MACAULAY.

THE dreamy rhymer's measured snore
Falls heavy on our ears no more;
And by long strides are left behind
The dear delights of womankind,

Who wage their battles like their loves,

In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
And have achieved the crowning work

When they have trussed and skewered a Turk.
Another comes with stouter tread,
And stalks among the statelier dead.
He rushes on, and hails by turns
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns;
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,
When all the Tuscans and their Lars
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

SONNETS TO GEORGE SAND.

A DESIRE.

THOU large-brained woman and large-hearted man, Self-called George Sand! whose soul amid the

lions

Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance,
And answers roar for roar, as spirits can,
I would some mild miraculous thunder ran
Above the applauded circus, in appliance

Of thine own nobler nature's strength and sci

ence,

Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan, From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place With holier light! that thou to woman's claim, And man's, might join beside the angel's grace Or a pure genius sanctified from blame;

Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace,

To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.

A RECOGNITION.

TRUE genius, but true woman! dost deny
Thy woman's nature with a manly scorn,
And break away the gauds and armlets worn
By weaker women in captivity?
Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry

Is sobbed in by a woman's voice forlorn ;
Thy woman's hair, my sister, all unshorn,
Floats back disheveled strength in agony,
Disproving thy man's name; and while before
The world thou burnest in a poet-fire,
We see thy woman-heart beat evermore

And artists envious, and the mob profane.
We know all this, we know!
Cam'st thou from heaven, O child
Of light! but this to declare?
Alas! to help us forget
Such barren knowledge awhile,
God gave the poet his song.
Therefore a secret unrest
Tortured thee, brilliant and bold !
Therefore triumph itself
Tasted amiss to thy soul.
Therefore, with blood of thy foes,
Trickled in silence thine own.
Therefore the victor's heart
Broke on the field of his fame.
Ah! as of old from the pomp
Of Italian Milan, the fair
Flower of marble of white
Southern palaces, steps
Bordered by statues, and walks
Terraced, and orange bowers

Longed himself back to the fields,
Rivers, and high-roofed towns
Of his native Germany; so,

So, how often! from hot
Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps
Blazing, and brilliant crowds,
Starred and jeweled, of men
Famous, of women the queens

Of dazzling converse, and fumes

Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain
That mount, that madden ! - how oft
Heine's spirit, outworn,

Longed itself out of the din

Back to the tranquil, the cool,
Far German home of his youth!
See in the May afternoon,

O'er the fresh short turf of the Hartz,
A youth, with the foot of youth,
Heine thou climbest again.
Up, through the tall dark firs
Warming their heads in the sun,
Checkering the grass with their shade,
Up, by the stream with its huge
Moss-hung bowlders and thin
Musical water half-hid,

Up o'er the rock-strewn slope,
With the sinking sun, and the air
Chill, and the shadows now
Long on the gray hillside,
To the stone-roofed hut at the top.

Or, yet later, in watch
On the roof of the Brocken tower
Thou standest, gazing! to see
The broad red sun, over field,
Forest and city and spire
And mist-tracked stream of the wide,
Wide German land, going down
In a bank of vapors, — again
Standest! at nightfall, alone;
Or, next morning, with limbs
Rested by slumber, and heart
Freshened and light with the May,
O'er the gracious spurs coming down
Of the lower Hartz, among oaks,
And beechen coverts, and copse
Of hazels green in whose depth
Ilse, the fairy transformed,
In a thousand water-breaks light
Pours her petulant youth,
Climbing the rock which juts
O'er the valley, the dizzily perched
Rock! to its Iron Cross

Once more thou cling'st; to the Cross Clingest! with smiles, with a sigh.

COME as artist, come as guest,
Welcome to the expectant West,
Hero of the charmed pen,
Loved of children, loved of men.
We have felt thy spell for years;
Oft with laughter, oft with tears,
Thou hast touched the tenderest part
Of our inmost, hidden heart.
We have fixed our eager gaze
On thy pages nights and days,
Wishing, as we turned them o'er,
Like poor Oliver, for "more,"
And the creatures of thy brain
In our memory remain,

Till through them we seem to be
Old acquaintances of thee.

Much we hold it thee to greet,
Gladly sit we at thy feet;

On thy features we would look,
As upon a living book,

And thy voice would grateful hear,
Glad to feel that Boz were near,
That his veritable soul
Held us by direct control:
Therefore, author loved the best,
Welcome, welcome to the West.

In immortal Weller's name,

By the rare Micawber's fame,

By the flogging wreaked on Squeers,
By Job Trotter's fluent tears,
By the beadle Bumble's fate
At the hands of shrewish mate,
By the famous Pickwick Club,
By the dream of Gabriel Grubb,
In the name of Snodgrass' muse,
Tupman's amorous interviews,
Winkle's ludicrous mishaps,
And the fat boy's countless naps;
By Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer,
By Miss Sally Brass, the lawyer,
In the name of Newman Noggs,
River Thames, and London fogs,
Richard Swiveller's excess,
Feasting with the Marchioness,
By Jack Bunsby's oracles,
By the chime of Christmas bells,
By the cricket on the hearth,
By the sound of childish mirth,
By spread tables and good cheer,
Wayside inns and pots of beer,
Hostess plump and jolly host,
Coaches for the turnpike post,
Chambermaid in love with Boots,
Toodles, Traddles, Tapley, Toots,
Betsey Trotwood, Mister Dick,
Susan Nipper, Mistress Chick,
Snevellicci, Lilyvick,
Mantalini's predilections
To transfer his warm affections,
By poor Barnaby and Grip,
Flora, Dora, Di, and Gip,
Perrybingle, Pinch and Pip,
Welcome, long-expected guest,
Welcome to the grateful West.