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,"
Nor named thee but to praise.

Burns.

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined, -
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

Curiosity.

Lo, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage,
Holds its warped mirror to a gaping age.

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,
In learned doctors' spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,
And lap me in delight.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
A Psalm of Life.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

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
To suffer and be strong.

It is not always May.

For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest!

There is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair.

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead.

The Golden Legend.

Time has laid his hand

Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
A Metrical Essay.

The freeman casting with unpurchased hand
The vote that shakes the turrets of the land.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky.

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the God of storms,
The lightning and the gale.

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
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody,
And break the legs of Time.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
The Vision of Sir Launfal.

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays.

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;
Yet it lies in my little one's cradle

And sits in my little one's chair,

And the light of the heaven she's gone to
Transfigures its golden hair.