ARTH, let thy softest mantle rest HORACE GREELEY. On this worn child to thee returning, We yield him back, O gentle Mother! Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill; The man was dearer than his glory. The closet where his shadow lingers, The vacant chair that was a throne, The pen just fallen from his fingers. Wrath changed to kindness on that pen, Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey; One flash from out the cloud, and then The skies with smile and jest were sunny. Of hate he surely lacked the art, O reverend head, and Christian heart! Where now their like the round world over? He saw the goodness, not the taint, But kept his faith in human nature; So much so little should be given! Himself alone he might not save, Of all for whom his hands had striven. Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed; Men took, and passed, and left him lonely; What marvel if, beneath his load, At times he craved - for justice only. Yet thanklessness, the serpent's tooth, The gracious presence gone forever! And anguish sits upon the mouth Of her who came to know him latest: His heart was ever thine, O South! He was thy truest friend, and greatest! He shunned thee in thy splendid shame, Fair South, can have no sadder morrow. The hands above his grave united, The words of men whose lips he loosed, Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted, Could he but know, and rest with this! Yet stay, through Death's low-lying hollow, His one last foe's insatiate hiss On that benignant shade would follow! Peace! while we shroud this man of men, His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken. O gently, Earth, receive his dust, Leave him to God's watching eye: Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by; God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, GEORGE HENRY BOKER. 66 VALE.* E mortuis nil nisi bonum." When For me the end has come, and I am dead, And little voluble chattering daws of men Peck at me curiously, let it then be said By some one brave enough to speak the truth: Here lies a great soul killed by cruel wrong. Down all the balmy days of his fresh youth, To his bleak, desolate noon, with sword and song, And speech that rushed up hotly from the heart, He wrought for Liberty, till his own wound (He had been stabbed), concealed with painful art Through wasting years, mastered him, and he swooned, And sank there where you see him lying now, But say that he succeeded. If he missed World's honors, and world's plaudits and the wage Of the world's deft lacqueys, still his lips were kissed The thirstings of the poets-for he was Mightily on him, and he moaned because So he died rich. And if his eyes were blurred Yet broke his heart in trying to be brave. The popular shibboleth of the courtier's lips, He was a-weary, but he fought his fight, To see the august broadening of the light, Not less, but more, than others hast thou striven; The scars of ancient hate, long since forgiven, Apostle pure of freedom and of right, Thy prayers were heard, and flashed upon thy sight Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender songs, But age's wisdom, crowning thee, prolongs Another line upon thy hand I trace, All destinies above: Men know thee most as one that loves his race, And bless thee with their love! BAYARD TAYLOR. MY PSALM. MOURN no more my vanished years: An April rain of smiles and tears, The west-winds blow, and, singing low, The windows of my soul I throw No longer forward nor behind I look in hope or fear; But, grateful, take the good I find, I plough no more a desert land, To harvest weed and tare; The manna dropping from God's hand I break my pilgrim staff, — I lay The angel sought so far away I welcome at my door. The airs of spring may never play Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Shall see its image given; The woods shall wear their robes of praise, And sweet, calm days in golden haze Not less shall manly deed and word The graven flowers that wreathe the sword But smiting hands shall learn to heal, — Nor less my heart for others feel All as God wills who wisely heeds Have marked my erring track;- That death seems but a covered way |