To confront his Portrait for "The Wound Dresser" in "Leaves of Grass." (Tragedies, sorrows, laughter, tears O heaven! The passionate teeming plays this curtain hid!) This glaze of God's serenest, purest sky, less small continent, this soundless Out from the convolutions of this globe, This subtler astronomic orb than sun or moon, than Jupiter, Venus, Mars, This condensation of the universe (nay, here the only universe, Here the idea, all in this mystic handful wrapt); Of youth long sped and middling age declining (As the first volume of a tale perused and laid away, and this the second, Songs, ventures, speculations, presently to close), Lingering a moment here and now, to you I opposite turn, As on the road, or at some crevice door by chance, or open'd window, Pausing, inclining, baring my head, you specially I greet, To draw and clinch your soul for once inseparably with mine, Then travel, travel on. WALT WHITMAN. Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. I praise him not; it were too late; So always firmly he : He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums, Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes; These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame, The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. ABRAHAM LINCOLN.* FOULLY ASSASSINATED APRIL 14, 1865. You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please; You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows. How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be; How, in good fortune and in ill, the same; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. He went about his work, such work as few Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work his will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. So he went forth to battle, on the side The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron-bark, that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil, The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train : Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. Judging each step as though the way were So he grew up, a destined work to do, plain, Reckless, so it could point its paragraph Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain: Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you? Yes he had lived to shame me from my sneer, • This tribute appeared in the London Punch, which, up to the time of the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, had ridiculed and maligned him with all its well-known powers of pen and pencil. And lived to do it: four long-suffering years' Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood; Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest ! The words of mercy were upon his lips, The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before out. Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven; And with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven. TOM TAYLOR. WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON. "Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city officers that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor; that his office was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his supporters a few very insignificant persons of all colors."- Letter of H. G. OTIS. IN a small chamber, friendless and unseen, Toiled o'er his types one poor, unlearned young man; The place was dark, unfurnitured, and mean : Yet there the freedom of a race began. Help came but slowly; surely no man yet What need of help? He knew how types were set, Such earnest natures are the fiery pith, The compact nucleus, round which systems grow: Mass after mass becomes inspired therewith, O Truth! O Freedom! how are ye still born burst! Whatever can be known of earth we know, Sneered Europe's wise men, in their snailshells curled; No! said one man in Genoa, and that No Out of the dark created this New World. Who is it will not dare himself to trust? Who is it hath not strength to stand alone? Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward Must? He and his works, like sand, from earth are blown. Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, look here! See one straightforward conscience put in pawn To win a world; see the obedient sphere By bravery's simple gravitation drawn ! Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old, And by the Present's lips repeated still, In our own single manhood to be bo'd, Fortressed in conscience and impregnable will? We stride the river daily at its spring, Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness, foresee What myriad vassal streams shall tribute bring, How like an equal it shall greet the sea. O small beginnings, ye are great and strong, THE OLD ADMIRAL. ADMIRAL STEWART, U. S. NAVY. GONE at last, That brave old hero of the past! His spirit has a second birth, An unknown, grander life ; All of him that was earth Lies mute and cold, Like a wrinkled sheath and old, Thrown off forever from the shimmering blade That has good entrance made Upon some distant, glorious strife. From another generation, simpler age, to ours Old Ironsides came; The morn and noontide of the nation Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame, O, not outlived his fame! What! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his The dauntless men whose service guards our shore cell, Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn her frown? Brave Luther answered Yes; that thunder's swell Rocked Europe, and discharmed the triple, crown. Lengthen still their glory-roll With his name to lead the scroll, As a flagship at her fore Carries the Union, with its azure and the stars, Symbol of times that are no more And the old heroic wars. It was fifty years ago, Upon the Gallic Sea, He bore the banner of the free, And fought the fight whereof our children know, The deathful, desperate fight! Under the fair moon's light The frigate squared, and yawed to left and right. Every broadside swept to death a score ! Roundly played her guns and well, till their fiery ensigns fell, Neither foe replying more. Earth to earth his dust is laid. Methinks his stately shade On the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore; Over cloudless western seas Seeks the far Hesperides, The islands of the blest, Where no turbulent billows roar, Where is rest. His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands There all his martial mates, renewed and strong, Await his coming long. I see the happy Heroes rise With gratulation in their eyes: "Welcome, old comrade," Lawrence cries; "Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars! Who win the glory and the scars? How floats the skyey flag, stars? Still speak they of Decatur's name? All in silence, when the night-breeze cleared the Room for the Admiral ! how many Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars!" EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN, KANE. DIED FEBRUARY 16, 1857. ALOFT upon an old basaltic erag, Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the Pole, Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll And underneath, upon the lifeless front Clung to the drifting floes, By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. Not many months ago we greeted him, Crowned with the icy honors of the North, Across the land his hard-won fame went forth, And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb. Will not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful, His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, ripe sleep, Of this lion of the wave, Burst from decorous quiet, as he came. Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, Will not trouble the old Admiral in his grave. Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, Proffered its horny hand. The large-lunged West, From out his giant breast, Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to main Jubilant to the sky, Thundered the mighty cry, HONOR TO KANE! In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast! Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies, Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew; The whispers of rebellion, faint and few At first, but deepening ever till they grew Into black thoughts of murder, such the throng Of horrors bound the hero. High the song Should be that hymns the noble part he played! Sinking himself, yet ministering aid To all around him. By a mighty will He stands, until spring, tardy with relief, Faded and faded! And the brave young heart And the pale prisoners thread the world once That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed And in the burning day Till on some rosy even It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea, And melted into heaven! He needs no tears who lived a noble life! Such homage suits him well, Better than funeral pomp or passing bell! What tale of peril and self-sacrifice! With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow! Night lengthening into months; the ravenous floe Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear The lethargy of famine; the despair Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued : Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind Glimmered the fading embers of a mind! That awful hour, when through the prostrate band Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand more, To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore Bearing their dying chief! Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold! From royal hands, who wooed the knightly state; The knell of old formalities is tolled, And the world's knights are now self-conse crate. No grander episode doth chivalry hold In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain, Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold, By the good Christian kuight, Elisha Kane! FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. MAZZINI. A LIGHT is out in Italy, A golden tongue of purest flame. We watched it burning, long and lone, And every watcher knew its name, And knew from whence its fervor came : That one rare light of Italy, Which put self-seeking souls to shame! This light which burnt for Italy Through all the blackness of her night, She doubted, once upon a time, Because it took away her sight. She looked and said, There is no light!" It was thine eyes, poor Italy! That knew not dark apart from bright. This flame which burnt for Italy, It would not let her haters sleep. They blew at it with angry breath, And only fed its upward leap, And only made it hot and deep. |