FITZ-GREENE HALLECK Marco Bozzaris. Strike for your altars and your fires; Strike for the green graves of your sires; God, and your native land! One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die. On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake. Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days; 45 None knew thee but to love thee," Burns. Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, CHARLES SPRAGUE. Curiosity. Lo, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage, Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends, An incarnation of fat dividends. Centennial Ode. Stanza 22. Behold! in Liberty's unclouded blaze We lift our heads, a race of other days. To my Cigar. Yes, social friend, I love thee well, HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Art is long, and Time is fleeting.* Let the dead Past bury its dead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time. *Life is short, and the art long. HIPPOCRATES, (Aphorism I.) Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. The Light of Stars. Know how sublimé a thing it is It is not always May. For Time will teach thee soon the truth, There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, The air is full of farewells to the dying, The Golden Legend. Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. The freeman casting with unpurchased hand Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the God of storms, Urania. Yes, child of suffering, thou mayst well be sure, He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor! And, when you stick on conversation's burrs, Don't strew your pathway with those dreadful urs. The Music-Grinders. You think they are crusaders, sent JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. And what is so rare as a day in June? Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, The Changeling. This child is not mine as the first was, I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly And bless it upon my breast; And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she's gone to |