But if one blessing I might crave from Heaven,

'Twould be that Mary should my being cheer,

Hang o'er me when the chord of life is riven, Be my dear household word, and my last accent here.

Henry T. Tuckerman.-Born 1813.

1910.-FLORENCE.

Princes, when soften'd in thy sweet embrace,

Yearn for no conquest but the realm of grace, And thus redeem'd, Lorenzo's fair domain Smiled in the light of Art's propitious reign. Delightful Florence! though the northern gale

Will sometimes rave around thy lovely vale, Can I forget how softly Autumn threw Beneath thy skies her robes of ruddy hue, Through what long days of balminess and peace,

From wintry bonds spring won thy mild release?

Along the Arno then I loved to pass,

And watch the violets peeping from the grass, Mark the grey kine each chestnut grove between,

Startle the pheasants on the lawny green,
Or down long vistas hail the mountain snow,
Like lofty shrines the purple clouds below.
Within thy halls, when veil'd the sunny rays,
Marvels of art await the ardent gaze,
And liquid words from lips of beauty start,
With social joy to warm the stranger's heart.
How beautiful at moonlight's hallow'd hour,
Thy graceful bridges, and celestial tower !
The girdling hills enchanted seem to hang
Round the fair scene whence modern genius

An Eldorado in the grass have found,

Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth-thou art more dear to me

Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Cf age, to rob the lover's heart of ease;

'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters

now

To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,

Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offer'd wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my trophies and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me

Are in the heart, and heed not space or time; Not in mid June the golden-cuirass'd bee Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tint,

His conquer'd Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grassOf meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass,

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand waysOf leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind-of waters clue

That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap-and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood's earliest thoughts are link'd with thee;

The sight of thee calls back the robin's song,
Who, from the dark old tree

Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,
And I, secure in childish piety,
Listen'd as if I heard an angel sing

With news from heaven, which he did
bring

Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

How like a prodigal doth Nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem

More sacredly of every human heart,
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret
show,

Did we but pay the love we owe,
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look
On all these living pages of God's book.

James R. Lowell.-Born 1819.

1912. THE POET.

In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder, The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife ;

He saw the mysteries which circle under

The outward shell and skin of daily life. Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion, His soul was led by the eternal law; There was in him no hope of fame, no passion, But with calm, godlike eyes, he only saw. He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried,

Chief mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had ferried

Alone were fitting themes of epic verse: He could believe the promise of to-morrow, And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day; He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow

Than the world's seeming loss could take away.

To know the heart of all things was his duty, All things did sing to him to make him wise,

And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty,

The soul of all look'd grandly from his eyes. He gazed on all within him and without him, He watch'd the flowing of Time's steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about him,

And whisper'd to him, and he prophesied. Than all men he more fearless was and freer, And all his brethren cried with one accord,"Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer! Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!"

He to his heart with large embrace had taken
The universal sorrow of mankind,
And, from that root, a shelter never shaken,

The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind. He could interpret well the wondrous voices

Which to the calm and silent spirit come; He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices In the star's anthem than the insect's hum. He in his heart was ever meek and humble, And yet with kindly pomp his numbers ran, As he foresaw how all things false should crumble

Before the free uplifted soul of man: And, when he was made full to overflowing

With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, Out rush'd his song, like molten iron glowing, To show God sitting by the humblest hearth.

With calmest courage he was ever ready

To teach that action was the truth of thought,

And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady,

The anchor of the drifting world he wrought,

So did he make the meanest man partaker
Of all his brother-gods unto him gave;
All souls did reverence him and name him
Maker,

And when he died heap'd temples on his

grave.

And still his deathless words of light are swimming

Serene throughout the great, deep infinite Of human soul, unwaning and undimming, To cheer and guide the mariner at night. But now the Poet is an empty rhymer,

Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, And fits his singing, like a cunning timer, To all men's prides and fancies as they pass.

Not his the song, which, in its metre holy, Chimes with the music of the eternal

stars,

Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, And sending sun through the soul's prisonbars.

Maker no more,-O, no! unmaker rather,

For he unmakes who doth not all put forth The power given by our loving Father

To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth.

Awake! great spirit of the ages olden ! Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, And let man's soul be yet again beholden

To thee for wings to soar to her desire. O, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendour, Be no more shame-faced to speak out for Truth,

Lay on her altar all the gushings tender,

The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth! O, prophesy no more the Maker's coming, Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear

In the dim void, like to the awful humming Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere!

O, prophesy no more, but be the Poet!

This longing was but granted unto thee That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it,

That beauty in its highest thou couldst be. O, thou who moanest, tost with sealike long

ings,

Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, Whose soul is overfill'd with mighty throngings

Of love, and fear, and glorious agony, Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed,

In whom the hero-spirit yet continues,

The old free nature is not chain'd or dead, Arouse! let thy soul break in music-thunder, Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder,

And tell the age what all its signs have meant.

Where'er thy wilder'd crowd of brethren jostles,

Where'er there lingers but a shade of wrong, There still is need of martyrs and apostles,

There still are texts for never-dying song; From age to age man's still aspiring spirit Finds wider scope and sees with clearer

eyes,

And thou in larger measure dost inherit What made thy great forerunners free and wise.

Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's mountain

Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain,

That all may drink and find the rest they seek.

Sing there shall silence grow in earth and heaven,

A silence of deep awe and wondering; For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even To hear a mortal like an angel sing.

Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking For one to bring the Maker's name to light, To be the voice of that almighty speaking Which every age demands to do it right. Proprieties our silken bards environ ;

He who would be the tongue of this wide land

Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron

And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand; One who hath dwelt with Nature well-attended,

Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books,

Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended,

So that all beauty awes us in his looks; Who not with body's waste his soul hath pamper'd,

Who as the clear north-western wind is free,

Who walks with Form's observances unhamper'd,

And follows the One Will obediently; Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit, Control a lovely prospect every way; Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet,

And find a bottom still of worthless clay; Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working,

Knowing that one sure wind blows on above, And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking,

One God-built shrine of reverence and love; Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches

Around the centre fix'd of Destiny, Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches The moving globe of being, like a sky; Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps

are nearer

Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom

dearer

Than that of all his brethren, low or high; Who to the right can feel himself the truer For being gently patient with the wrong, Who sees a brother in the evildoer,

And finds in Love the heart's blood of his

song:

This, this is he for whom the world is waiting To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, Too long hath it been patient with the grating Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art.

To him the smiling soul of man shall listen, Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside, And once again in every eye shall glisten The glory of a nature satisfied.

His verse shall have a great, commanding motion,

Heaving and swelling with a melody Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean,

And all the pure, majestic things that be. Awake, then, thou! we pine for thy great presence

To make us feel the soul once more sublime, We are of far too infinite an essence

To rest contented with the lies of Time. Speak out! and, lo! a hush of deepest wonder Shall sink o'er all his many-voiced scene, As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder Shatters the blueness of a sky serene.

J. R. Lowell.-Born 1819.

Look how the grey old Ocean
From the depth of his heart rejoices,
Heaving with a gentle motion,
When he hears our restful voices;
List how he sings in an undertone,
Chiming with our melody;

And all sweet sounds of earth and air
Melt into one low voice alone,
That murmurs over the weary sea,-
And seems to sing from every where,―
"Here mayest thou harbour peacefully,
Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar;
Turn thy curvèd prow ashore,

And in our green isle rest for evermore!
For evermore!"

And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep,

Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, "Evermore!"

Thus, on Life's weary sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing low and clear,
Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be,

Than to be toiling late and soon?
In the dreary night to see
Nothing but the blood-red moon
Go up and down into the sea;
Or, in the loneliness of day,

To see the still seals only
Solemnly lift their faces grey,
Making it yet more lonely?
Is it not better, than to hear
Only the sliding of the wave
Beneath the plank, and feel so near
A cold and lonely grave,

A restless grave, where thou shalt lie

- Even in death unquietly?

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark,
Lean over the side and see

The leaden eye of the side-long shark
Upturned patiently,

Ever waiting there for thee:
Look down and see those, shapeless forms,
Which ever keep their dreamless sleep
Far down within the gloomy deep,
And only stir themselves in storms,
Rising like islands from beneath,
And snorting through the angry spray,
As the frail vessel perisheth

In the whirls of their unwieldy play :
Look down! Look down!
Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark,
That waves its arms so lank and brown,
Beckoning for thee!

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark
Into the cold depth of the sea!
Look down! Look down!

Thus, on Life's lonely sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voices sad, from far and near,
Ever singing full of fear,
Ever singing drearfully.

1914.-AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR.

He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Press'd round to hear the praise of one Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as their own.

And, when he read, they forward lean'd, Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, Ilis brook-like songs whom glory never wean'd

From humble smiles and tears.

Slowly there grew a tender awe,
Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard,
As if in him who read they felt and saw
Some presence of the bard.

It was a sight for sin and wrong
And slavish tyranny to see,

A sight to make our faith more pure and

strong

In high humanity.

I thought, these men will carry hence
Promptings their former life above,
And something of a finer reverence
For beauty, truth, and love.

God scatters love on every side,
Freely among his children all,

And always hearts are lying open wide,
Wherein some grains may fall.

There is no wind but soweth seeds
Of a more true and open life,

Which burst, unlook'd-for, into high-soul'd

deeds

With wayside beauty rife.

We find within these souls of ours

Some wild germs of a higher birth,

Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers Whose fragrance fills the earth.

Within the hearts of all men lie
These promises of wider bliss,

Which blossom into hopes that cannot die,
In sunny hours like this.

All that hath been majestical

In life or death, since time began, Is native in the simple heart of all, The angel heart of man.

And thus, among the untaught poor Great deeds and feelings find a home, That cast in shadow all the golden lore Of classic Greece and Rome.

O mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skyey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity!

All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole :

In his broad breast the feeling deep
That struggled on the many's tongue,
Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap
O'er the weak thrones of wrong.

All thought begins in feeling,-wide
In the great mass its base is hid,

And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified,
A moveless pyramid.

Nor is he far astray who deems

That every hope, which rises and grows broad

In the world's heart, by order'd impulse streams

From the great heart of God.

God wills, man hopes: in common souls
Hope is but vague and undefined,

Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls
A blessing to his kind.

Never did Poesy appear

So full of heaven to me as when

I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear

To the lives of coarsest men.

It may be glorious to write

Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight

Once in a century;

But better far it is to speak

One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men ;

To write some earnest verse or line, Which, seeking not the praise of art, Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine In the untutor'd heart.

He who doth this, in verse or prose,

May be forgotten in his day,

But surely shall be crown'd at last with those Who live and speak for aye.

J. R. Lowell.-Born 1819.

1915. THE HERITAGE.

The rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn,
A breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft, white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoy'd with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labour sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learn'd by being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O, rich man's son! there is a toil,
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft, white hands,-
This is the best crop from thy lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.