The king set forth for Dara's province straight, Where, as was fit, outside his city's gate The viceroy met him with a stately train; And there, with archers circled, close at hand, A camel with the chest was seen to stand, The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain.

"Open me now," he cried, "yon treasure-chest!"

'Twas done, and only a worn shepherd's vest Was found within; some blushed and hung the head, Not Dara; open as the sky's blue roof He stood, and "O, my lord, behold the proof That I was worthy of my trust!" he said.

"For ruling men, lo! all the charm I had; My soul, in those coa.r.s.e vestments ever clad, Still to the unstained past kept true and leal, Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air, And Fortune's heaviest gifts serenely bear, Which bend men from the truth, and make them reel.

"To govern wisely I had shown small skill Were I not lord of simple Dara still; That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way!"

Strange dew in royal eyes grew round, and bright And thrilled the trembling lids; before 'twas night Two added provinces blest Dara's sway.

TO J. F. H.

Nine years have slipped like hour-gla.s.s sand From life's fast-emptying globe away, Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, And lingered on the impoverished land, Watching the steamer down the bay.

I held the keepsake which you gave, Until the dim smoke-pennon curled O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, And closed the distance like a grave, Leaving me to the outer world;

The old worn world of hurry and heat, The young, fresh world of thought and scope; While you, where silent surges fleet Toward far sky beaches still and sweet, Sunk wavering down the ocean-slope.

Come back our ancient walks to tread, Old haunts of lost or scattered friends, Amid the Muses' factories red, Where song, and smoke, and laughter sped The nights to proctor-hunted ends.

Our old familiars are not laid, Though snapped our wands and sunk our books, They beckon, not to be gainsaid, Where, round broad meads which mowers wade, Smooth Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks;

Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, From glow to gloom the hillside shifts Its lakes of rye that surge and flow, Its plumps of orchard-trees arow, Its snowy white-weed's summer drifts.

Or let us to Nantasket, there To wander idly as we list, Whether, on rocky hillocks bare, Sharp cedar-points, like breakers, tear The trailing fringes of gray mist.

Or whether, under skies clear-blown, The heightening surfs with foamy din, Their breeze-caught forelocks backward blown Against old Neptune's yellow zone, Curl slow, and plunge forever in.

For years thrice three, wise Horace said, A poem rare let silence bind; And love may ripen in the shade, Like ours, for nine long seasons laid In crypts and arches of the mind.

That right Falernian friendship old Will we, to grace our feast, call up, And freely pour the juice of gold, That keeps life's pulses warm and bold, Till Death shall break the empty cup.

MEMORIAL VERSES.

KOSSUTH.

A race of n.o.bles may die out, A royal line may leave no heir; Wise Nature sets no guards about Her pewter plate and wooden ware.

But they fail not, the kinglier breed, Who starry diadems attain; To dungeon, axe, and stake succeed Heirs of the old heroic strain.

The zeal of Nature never cools, Nor is she thwarted of her ends; When gapped and dulled her cheaper tools, Then she a saint and prophet spends.

Land of the Magyars! though it be The tyrant may relink his chain, Already thine the victory, As the just Future measures gain.

Thou hast succeeded, thou hast won The deathly travail's amplest worth; A nation's duty thou hast done, Giving a hero to our earth.

And he, let come what will of woe, Has saved the land he strove to save; No Cossack hordes, no traitor's blow, Can quench the voice shall haunt his grave.

"I Kossuth am: O Future, thou That clear'st the just and blott'st the vile, O'er this small dust in reverence bow, Remembering, what I was erewhile.

"I was the chosen trump wherethrough Our G.o.d sent forth awakening breath; Came chains? Came death? The strain He blew Sounds on, outliving chains and death."

TO LAMARTINE.

1848.

I did not praise thee when the crowd, 'Witched with the moment's inspiration, Vexed thy still ether with hosannas loud, And stamped their dusty adoration; I but looked upward with the rest, And, when they shouted Greatest, whispered Best.

They raised thee not, but rose to thee, Their fickle wreaths about thee flinging; So on some marble Phbus the high sea Might leave his worthless sea-weed clinging, But pious hands, with reverent care, Make the pure limbs once more sublimely bare.

Now thou 'rt thy plain, grand self again, Thou art secure from panegyric,-- Thou who gav'st politics an epic strain, And actedst Freedom's n.o.blest lyric: This side the Blessed Isles, no tree Grows green enough to make a wreath for thee.

Nor can blame cling to thee; the snow From swinish foot-prints takes no staining, But, leaving the gross soils of earth below, Its spirit mounts, the skies regaining, And unresenting falls again, To beautify the world with dews and rain.

The highest duty to mere man vouchsafed Was laid on thee,--out of wild chaos, When the roused popular ocean foamed and chafed, And vulture War from his Imaus Snuffed blood, to summon homely Peace, And show that only order is release.

To carve thy fullest thought, what though Time was not granted? Aye in history, Like that Dawn's face which baffled Angelo, Left shapeless, grander for its mystery, Thy great Design shall stand, and day Flood its blind front from Orients far away.

Who says thy day is o'er? Control, My heart, that bitter first emotion; While men shall reverence the steadfast soul, The heart in silent self-devotion Breaking, the mild, heroic mien, Thou'lt need no prop of marble, Lamartine.

If France reject thee, 'tis not thine, But her own, exile that she utters; Ideal France, the deathless, the divine, Will be where thy white pennon flutters, As once the n.o.bler Athens went With Aristides into banishment.

No fitting metewand hath To-day For measuring spirits of thy stature,-- Only the Future can reach up to lay The laurel on that lofty nature,-- Bard, who with some diviner art Has touched the bard's true lyre, a nation's heart.

Swept by thy hand, the gladdened chords, Crashed now in discords fierce by others, Gave forth one note beyond all skill of words, And chimed together, We are brothers.

O poem unsurpa.s.sed! it ran All round the world, unlocking man to man.

France is too poor to pay alone The service of that ample spirit; Paltry seem low dictatorship and throne, If balanced with thy simple merit.

They had to thee been rust and loss; Thy aim was higher,--thou hast climbed a Cross.

TO JOHN G. PALFREY.