O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great;
Toil only gives the soul to shine,

And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-fill'd past;
A heritage, it seems to me.
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

J. R. Lowell.-Born 1819.

1916.-TO THE FUTURE.

O, Land of Promise! from what Pisgah's height

Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers ?

Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight, Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers ?

Gazing upon the sunset's high-heap'd gold,
Its crags of opal and of chrysolite,
Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold
Still brightening abysses,

And blazing precipices,

Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven,

Sometimes a glimpse is given,

Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted blisses.

O, Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf

Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps ; Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf

And lure out blossoms: to thy bosom

leaps,

As to a mother's, the o'erwearied heart,
Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart,
The hurrying feet, the curses without
number,

And circled with the glow Elysian,
Of thine exulting vision,

Out of its very cares woos charms for peace

and slumber.

To thee the Earth lifts up her fetter'd hands And cries for vengeance; with a pitying smile

Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands, And her old woe-worn face a little while Grows young and noble; unto thee the Oppressor

Looks, and is dumb with awe;

The eternal law

Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser,

Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my night!

He is a coward who would borrow A charm against the present sorrow From the vague Future's promise of delight: As life's alarums nearer roll,

The ancestral buckler calls,
Self-clanging, from the walls
In the high temple of the soul;
Where are most sorrows, there the poet's
sphere is,

To feed the soul with patience,
To heal its desolations

With words of unshorn truth, with love that never wearies.

J. R. Lowell.-Born 1819.

1917. THE FOUNTAIN.

Into the sunshine,

Full of light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn to night!
Into the moonlight,

Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like
When the winds blow!
Into the starlight,
Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight,
Happy by day!
Ever in motion,
Blithesome and cheery,
Still climbing heavenward
Never a-weary!
Glad of all weathers,
Still seeming best,
Upward or downward
Motion thy rest;
Full of a nature

Nothing can tame,
Changed every moment,

Ever the same;—

Ceaseless, aspiring;
Ceaseless, content;
Darkness or sunshine

Thy element.

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be
Fresh, changeful, constant,
Upward, like thee!

J. R. Lowell.-Born 1819.

1918.-BEN BOLT.

Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,

Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,

And trembled with fear at your frown?

In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt,
In a corner obscure and alone,
They have fitted a slab of the granite so grey,
And Alice lies under the stone.

Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt,

Which stood at the foot of the hill, Together we've lain in the noonday shade, And listen'd to Appleton's mill:

The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt. The rafters have tumbled in,

And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze,

Has follow'd the olden din.

Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,
At the edge of the pathless wood,

And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,
Which nigh by the door-step stood?
The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt,

The tree you would seek in vain;
And where once the lords of the forest waved,
Grows grass and the golden grain.

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim,

And the shaded nook in the running brook,
Where the children went to swim?
Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,
The spring of the brook is dry,

And of all the boys who were schoolmates

then,

There are only you and I.

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt,

They have changed from the old to the

new:

But I feel inthedeeps of my spirit the truth,
There never was change in you.
Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt,
Since first we were friends-yet I hail
Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a
truth,

Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale.

Thomas Dunn English.-Born 1819.

1919.--THE BRICKMAKER.

I.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground,
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded.

In no stately structures skill'd,
What the temple we would build?
Now the massive kiln is risen-
Call it palace-call it prison;
View it well: from end to end
Narrow corridors extend-

Long, and dark, and smother'd aisles:
Choke its earthy vaults with piles

Of the resinous yellow pine;

Now thrust in the fetter'd Fire-
Hearken how he stamps with ire,
Treading out the pitchy wine;
Wrought anon to wilder spells,

Hear him shout his loud alarms;
See him thrust his glowing arms
Through the windows of his cells.

But his chains at last shall sever;
Slavery lives not for ever;
And the thickest prison wall
Into ruin yet must fall.
Whatsoever falls away
Springeth up again, they say ;

Then, when this shall break asunder,
And the fire be freed from under,
Tell us what imperial thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a stately building-
Airy dome and column'd walls;
Mottoes writ in richest gilding

Blazing through its pillar'd halls.
In those chambers, stern and dreaded,
They, the mighty ones, shall stand;
There shall sit the hoary-headed

Old defenders of the land.

There shall mighty words be spoken,
Which shall thrill a wondering world;
Then shall ancient bonds be broken,
And new banners be unfurl'd.

But anon those glorious uses

In these chambers shall lie dead, And the world's antique abuses,

Hydra-headed, rise instead.

But this wrong not long shall linger-
The old capitol must fall;
For, behold! the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall.

II.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground,
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded-
Till the heavy walls be risen,
And the fire is in his prison:
But when break the walls asunder,
And the fire is freed from under,
Say again what stately thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a church whose steeple
To the heavens shall aspire ;
And shall come the mighty people
To the music of the choir.

On the infant, robed in whiteness,

Shall baptismal waters fall,

While the child's angelic brightness
Sheds a halo over all.

There shall stand enwreath'd in marriage
Forms that tremble-hearts that thrill-

To the door Death's sable carriage
Shall bring forms and hearts grown still!

Deck'd in garments richly glistening,
Rustling wealth shall walk the aisle;
And the poor without stand listening,
Praying in their hearts the while.

There the veteran shall come weekly
With his cane, oppress'd and poor,
'Mid the horses standing meekly,
Gazing through the open door.

But these wrongs not long shall linger-
The presumptuous pile must fall;
For, behold! the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall.

III.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground,
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded:
Say again what stately thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

Not the hall with column'd chambers,
Starr'd with words of liberty,
Where the freedom-canting members
Feel no impulse of the free:

Not the pile where souls in error

Hear the words, "Go, sin no more!" But a dusky thing of terror, With its cells and grated door. To its inmates each to-morrow Shall bring in no tide of joy. Born in darkness and in sorrow,

There shall stand the fated boy.

With a grief too loud to smother,

With a throbbing, burning head, There shall groan some desperate mother, Nor deny the stolen bread!

There the veteran, a poor debtor,

Mark'd with honourable scars, Listening to some clanking fetter, Shall gaze idly through the bars:

Shall gaze idly not demurring,

Though with thick oppression bow'd, While the many, doubly erring,

Shall walk honour'd through the crowd. Yet these wrongs not long shall lingerThe benighted pile must fall; For, behold! the fiery finger Flames along the fated wall.

IV.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground,
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded-
Till the heavy wall be risen
And the fire is in his prison.
Capitol, and church, and jail,
Like our kiln at last shall fail;

Every shape of earth shall fade; But the heavenly temple, made For the sorely tried and pure, With its Builder shall endure!

T. B. Read.-Born 1822.

1920. MY HERMITAGE.

Within a wood one summer's day,
And in a hollow, ancient trunk,
I shut me from the world away,
To live as lives a hermit monk.

My cell was a ghostly sycamore,

The roots and limbs were dead with age; Decay had carved the Gothic door

Which look'd into my hermitage.

My library was large and full,

Where, ever as a hermit plods,

I read until my eyes are dull

With tears; for all those tomes were God's.

The vine that at my doorway swung
Had verses writ on every leaf,

The very songs the bright bees sung
In honey-seeking visits brief-

Not brief-though each stay'd never long-
So rapidly they came and went,
No pause was left in all their song,

For while they borrow'd still they lent.
All day the woodland minstrels sang-
Small feet were in the leaves astir-
And often o'er my doorway rang
The tap of a blue-wing'd visitor.

Afar the stately river sway'd,

And pour'd itself in giant swells,
While here the brooklet danced and play'd,
And gaily rung its liquid bells.

The springs gave me their crystal flood,
And my contentment made it wine-
And oft I found what kingly food

Grew on the world-forgotten vine.
The moss, or weed, or running flower,
Too humble in their hope to climb,
Had in themselves the lovely power

To make me happier for the time. And when the starry night came by, And stooping look'd into my cell, Then all between the earth and sky Was circled in a holier spell.

A height and depth and breadth sublime O'erspread the scene, and reach'd the stars, Until Eternity and Time

Seemed drowning their dividing bars. And voices which the day ne'er hears,

And visions which the sun ne'er sees, From earth and from the distant spheres, Camc on the moonlight and the breeze.

Thus day and night my spirit grew

In love with that which round me shone, Until my calm heart fully knew

The joy it is to be alone.

The time went by, till one fair dawn
I saw against the eastern fires,
A visionary city drawn

With dusky lines of domes and spires.
The wind in sad and fitful spells

Blew o'er it from the gates of morn,
Till I could clearly hear the bells
That rung above a world forlorn.
And well I listen'd to their voice,
And deeply ponder'd what they said-
Till I arose there was no choice-
I went while yet the east was red.

My waken'd heart for utterance yearn'd-
The clamorous wind had broke the spell-
I needs must teach what I had learn'd
Within my simple woodland cell.

T. B. Read.-Born 1822.

And lovely were the ladies too,

Who sat in the light bright hall, And one there was, oh, dream of life! The loveliest 'mid them all;

She sat alone by an empty chair,

The queen of the feast was she,
And I said to myself, "By that lady fair
I certainly ought to be."

And aloud she spoke, "We have waited long
For one who, in fear and doubt,
Looks wistfully into our hall of song

As he sits on the steps without ;

I have sung to him long in silent dreams,
I have led him o'er land and sea,
Go welcome him in as his rank beseems,
And give him a place by me!"

They open'd the door, yet I shrunk with shame,
As I sat in my mantle thin,

But they hail'd me out with a joyous shout, And merrily led me in

And gave me a place by my bright-hair'd love,

And she wept with joy and glee,

And I said to myself, "By the stars above, I am just where I ought to be!"

Farewell to thee, life of joy and grief!
Farewell to ye, care and pain!
Farewell, thou vulgar and selfish world!
For I never will know thee again.

I live in a land where good fellows abound,
In Thelemé, by the sea;

They may long for a "happier 'ife" that will,

I am just where I ought to be!

C. G. Leland.-Born 1824.

I long had watch'd-for in the early morn,
To ope her lattice came that lady oft;
And earnestly I gazed, yet naught I saw,
Save one small hand and arm, white, fair,

and soft.

And when, at eve, the long, dark shadows fell O'er rock and valley, vineyard, town, and tower,

Again she came again that small white hand Would close her lattice for the vesper hour.

I linger'd still, e'en when the silent night Had cast its sable mantle o'er the shrine, To see her lonely taper's softon'd light

Gleam, far reflected, o'er the quiet Rhine! But most I loved to see her form at times, Obscure those beams-for then her shade would fall,

And I beheld it, evenly portray'd

A living profile, on that window small. And thus I lived in love-though not in hope

And thus I watch'd that maiden many a

year,

When, lo! I saw, one morn, a funeral trainAlas! they bore my lady to her bier!

And she was dead-yet grieved I not therefore,

For now in Heaven she knew the love I felt,

Death could not kill affection nor destroy

The holy peace wherein I long had dwelt.

Oh, gentle lady! this was but a dream;
And in a dream I bore all this for thee.
If thus in sleep love's pangs assail my soul,
Think, lady, what my waking hours must
be!
C. G. Leland.-Born 1824.

1922.-A DREAM OF LOVE.

I dream'd I lay beside the dark blue Rhine, In that old tower where once Sir Roland dwelt;

Methought his gentle lady-love was mine,

And mine the cares and pain which once he felt.

Dim, cloudy centuries had roll'd away,

E'en to that minstrel age-the olden time, When Roland's lady bid him woo no more,

And he, aweary, sought the eastern clime. Methought that I, like him, had wander'd long In those strange lands of which old legends tell;

Then home I turn'd to my own glancing Rhine,

And found my lady in a convent cell; And I, like him, had watch'd through weary years,

And dwelt unseen hard by her convent's bound,

In that old tower, which yet stands pitying The cloister-isle, enclosed by water round.

1923. THE THREE FRIENDS.

I have three friends, three glorious friends, three dearer could not be ;

And every night when midnight tolls, they meet to laugh with me.

The first was shot by Carlist thieves, three years ago, in Spain;

The second drown'd, near Alicante, and I alive remain.

I love to see their thin white forms come stealing through the night,

And grieve to see them fade away in the early

morning light.

The first with gnomes in the Under-land is leading a lordly life,

The second has married a mermaiden, a beautiful water-wife.

And since I have friends in the earth and sea -with a few, I trust, cn high,

'Tis a matter of small account to me, the way that I may die.