Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, Not a tear for the friends that sink; We'll fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles, As mute as the wine we drink. So stand to your glasses steady, 'Tis in this that our respite lies; One cup to the dead already Hurrah for the next that dies! Time was when we frowned at others, There's many a hand that's shaking, 'Tis here the revival lies; A cup to the dead already- There's a mist on the glass congealing, 'Tis the hurricane's fiery breath; And thus does the warmth of feeling Turn ice in the grasp of death. Ho! stand to your glasses steady; For a moment the vapor flies; A cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies! Who dreads to the dust returning? Hurrah for the next that dies! Cut off from the land that bore us, A cup to the dead already— And hurrah for the next that dies! BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow. PALE student, leave thy cobwebbed dim alcove, And stretch one restful summer's afternoon Thoughtless amidst the thoughtless things of June, Beneath these boughs with light and murmur wove! Drop book and pen, a thrall releaséd rove The Sisyphean task flung off; impugn The withered Sphinx-with earth's fresh heart attune: Thou, man, the origin of evil prove! O leave that dark soil where the spider delves, And cool thy brain in this balm-laden air; MYRON B. BENTON. ON THE MOUNTAIN. ALL else lies far beneath me, or above, MARY AUGUSTA MASON. MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour: Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. WILLIAM Wordsworth. MILTON. I PACE the sounding sea-beach and behold, How the voluminous billows roll and run, Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun Shines through their sheeted emerald far unrolled, And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold All its loose-folding garments into one, Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold. So in majestic cadence rise and fall Uplifted a ninth wave, superb and strong, Floods all the soul with its melodious seas. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. ROBERT BROWNING. THE POET OF HUMAN LIFE. SILENCE and Night sequestered thee in vain! Oblivion's threats thou proudly couldst defy. Thou art not dead-supreme souls do not die: One small world's range no longer could constrain That strong-winged spirit of its freedom fain New stars, new lives thy fearless quest would try: Our baffled vision may not soar so highWe mourn as loss thine infinite, great gain. Yet keen of sight, to whom men's souls lay bare, Heir of heaven's secrets even while on earth! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THOU wast not robbed of wonder when youth fled, Spain's coast of charm and all the North Sea's cold Thou knewest, and thou knewest the soul of eld, And dusty scroll and volume we beheld To gold transmuted-not to hard-wrought gold, But that clear shining of the eastern air, When Helios rising shakes the splendor of his hair. HELEN GRAY CONE. ON THE DEATH OF PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. HUSHED now, forever, that beloved voice All craved to hear-heard but within my soul, Across those mighty water-worlds that roll 'Twixt two great earth-worlds. Only death destroys, In souls unstained as his, those stainless joys That come to hearts at rest in love's control; Though round him shone the singer's aureole, His mighty heart was simple as a boy's. His pine woods felt him, and his loved winds blow, For requiem, round his more than palace home. Dumb the King's mortal lips, for aye; but, lo! Through what he wrote the soul is never dumb, Though the stars, wheeling proudly, seem to know That he who loved them to his own is come. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. WHEN JUNE SHALL COME AGAIN. TO EMILY PFEIFFER. THESE are the weeping moments of the year. near She'll don her kirtle green, with pale buds crowned And laugh with joy, until the echoes bound With "Roses! Roses of full June are here." |