Yes, social friend, I love thee well,
In tearned doctors' spite;

Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,

And lap me in delight.

To my Cigar.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

Strike

Strike

1790-1867.

for your altars and your fires;

for the green graves of your sires;

God, and your native land! Marco Bozzaris.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals

That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet song, and dance, and wine;
And thou art terrible, the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,

And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Ibid.

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be. Ibid.

One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.

Green be the turf above thee,

Marco Bozzaris.

Friend of my better days; None knew thee but to love thee,1 Nor named thee but to praise.

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.

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

The Meccas of the mind.

Burns.

They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why ; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty.

This bank-note world.

Connecticut.

Alnwick Castle.

Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,

The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,

The Douglass in red herrings.

Ibid.

HENRY HART MILMAN.

1791-1868.

And the cold marble leapt to life a god.

The Belvedere Apollo.

Too fair to worship, too divine to love. Ibid.

1 Compare Rogers, Jacqueline.

JOHN KEATS. 1795-1821.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness.

Endymion. Line 1.

Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.

Lamia. Part ii.

Music's golden tongue

Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

The Eve of St. Agnes. St. 3.

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud

Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.

Ibid.

O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene!
Ode to a Nightingale.

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Ibid.

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time. Ode on a Grecian Urn.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

Ode on a Grecian Urn.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Hear ye not the hum

Ibid.

Of mighty workings?

Addressed to Haydon.

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

On first looking into Chapman's Homer.

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.
To One who has been long in City pent.

The poetry of earth is never dead.

On the Grasshopper and Cricket.

CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried.
The Burial of Sir John Moore.

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory! Ibid.

If I had thought thou could'st have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou could'st mortal be.

Go, forget me—why should sorrow

O'er that brow a shadow fling?

Go, forget me- and to-morrow

Brightly smile and sweetly sing.

Smile though I shall not be near thee;
Sing-though I shall never hear thee.

Song.

Song.

THOMAS C. HALIBURTON. 1796-1865.

I want you to see Peel, Stanley, Graham, Shiel, Russell, Macaulay, Old Joe, and so on. They are all upper-crust here.1

Sam Slick in England. Ch. xxiv.

I Those families, you know, are our upper-crust, not upper ten thousand.-Cooper, The Ways of the Hour, Ch. vi. (1850). Sam Slick first appeared in a weekly paper of Nova Scotia, 1835.