For which men vainly decimate the throng,
Not only famous, but of that good fame,
Without which glory 's but a tavern song,
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,
Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with
wrong;

An active hermit, even in age the child
Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild.
"T is true he shrank from men, even of his nation,
When they built up unto his darling trees,
He moved some hundred miles off, for a station
Where there were fewer houses and more ease;
The inconvenience of civilization

Is that you neither can be pleased nor please; But where he met the individual man, He showed himself as kind as mortal can. He was not all alone; around him grew A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, Whose young, unwakened world was ever new: Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view A frown on nature's or on human face;The freeborn forest found and kept them free, And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile,
It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all-idle hand,
In loitering mood, upon the sand,
That earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
Transferred his byword to thy brow.

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage,
What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prisoned rage?
But one,
"The world was mine!"

Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine
That spirit poured so widely forth,
So long obeyed, so little worth!

-

Perish the wicked!" or blaspheming,
Lies our Belshazzar, our Sennacherib,
Our Pharaoh, - he whose heart God hardenéd,
So that he would not let the people go."

Self-glorifying sinners! Why, this man
Was but like other men :-you, Levite small,
Who shut your saintly ears, and prate of hell
And heretics, because outside church-doors,
Your church-doors, congregations poor and small
Praise Heaven in their own way; — you, autocrat
Of all the hamlets, who add field to field
And house to house, whose slavish children cower
Before your tyrant footstep; -you, foul-tongued
Fanatic or ambitious egotist,

Who thinks God stoops from his high majesty
To lay his finger on your puny head,

And crown it, that you henceforth may parade Your maggotship throughout the wondering world,

LIFE may be given in many ways,
And loyalty to Truth be sealed
As bravely in the closet as the field,
So bountiful is Fate;

But then to stand beside her,
When craven churls deride her,
To front a lie in arms and not to yield,
This shows, methinks, God's plan
And measure of a stalwart man,
Limbed like the old heroic breeds,
Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid
earth,

Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, Fed from within with all the strength he needs.

Such was he, our Martyr-Chief,

Whom late the Nation he had led,
With ashes on her head,

Wept with the passion of an angry grief :

For him her Old World moulds aside she threw, And, choosing sweet clay from the breast

Of the unexhausted West,
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.
How beautiful to see

Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed,
Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ;
One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,
Not lured by any cheat of birth,
But by his clear-grained human worth,
And brave old wisdom of sincerity!

They knew that outward grace is dust;
They could not choose but trust

In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,
And supple-tempered will

That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.

His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,
Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,
A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind;
Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined,
Fruitful and friendly for all human kind,
Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars.
Nothing of Europe here,

Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,
Ere any names of Serf and Peer
Could Nature's equal scheme deface;
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 ; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, Safe in himself as in a fate.

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.

"

BURIAL OF LINCOLN.

PEACE! Let the long procession come,

For hark!

the mournful, muffled drum, The trumpet's wail afar ;

And see the awful car!

Peace! Let the sad procession go,
While cannon boom, and bells toll slow;
And go, thou sacred car,
Bearing our woe afar!

Go, darkly borne, from State to State,
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait
To honor, all they can,
The dust of that good man!

Go, grandly borne, with such a train
As greatest kings might die to gain :

The just, the wise, the brave
Attend thee to the grave!

And you, the soldiers of our wars,
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,
Salute him once again,

Your late commander, — slain !

Yes, let your tears indignant fall,
But leave your muskets on the wall;
Your country needs you now
Beside the forge, the plough!

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The fallen to his last repose.

Beneath no mighty dome,
But in his modest home,

The churchyard where his children rest,
The quiet spot that suits him best,

There shall his grave be made,
And there his bones be laid!

And there his countrymen shall come,
With memory proud, with pity dumb,

And strangers, far and near,
For many and many a year!
For many a year and many an age,
While History on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll
Of that paternal soul!

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

KANE.

DIED FEBRUARY 16, 1857.

ALOFT upon an old basaltic crag,

Around the secret of the mystic zone,
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag
Flutters alone,

And underneath, upon the lifeless front
Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced;
Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt,
But with a rocky purpose in his soul,
Breasted the gathering snows,

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. His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, Burst from decorous quiet as he came.

Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, 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
The reddening roses! All in vain we poured
The golden wine, and round the shining board
Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung

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,

Faded and faded! And the brave young heart That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed Of all its vital heat, in that long quest For the lost captain, now within his breast More and more faintly throbbed. His was the victory; but as his grasp Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, Death launched a whistling dart; And ere the thunders of applause were done His bright eyes closed forever on the sun! Too late, too late the splendid prize he won In the Olympic race of Science and of Art! Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone, Drifts from the white North to a Tropic zone, And in the burning day Wastes peak by peak away,

-

Till on some rosy even

It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea,

And melted into heaven!

Pole

Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll

We will not weep for him who died so well; But we will gather round the hearth, and tell