Would not some hidden song-bud open bright As the resplendent cactus of the night That floods the gloom with fragrance and with light?

How can we praise the verse whose music flows With solemn cadence and majestic close, Pure as the dew that filters through the rose?

How shall we thank him that in evil days He faltered never,--nor for blame, nor praise, Nor hire, nor party, shamed his earlier lays?

But as his boyhood was of manliest hue, So to his youth his manly years were true, All dyed in royal purple through and through!

He for whose touch the lyre of Heaven is strung Needs not the flattering toil of mortal tongue Let not the singer grieve to die unsung!

Marbles forget their message to mankind: In his own verse the poet still we find, In his own page his memory lives enshrined,

As in their amber sweets the smothered bees,-- As the fair cedar, fallen before the breeze, Lies self-embalmed amidst the mouldering trees.

Poets, like youngest children, never grow Out of their mother's fondness. Nature so Holds their soft hands, and will not let them go,

Till at the last they track with even feet Her rhythmic footsteps, and their pulses beat Twinned with her pulses, and their lips repeat.

The secrets she has told them, as their own Thus is the inmost soul of Nature known, And the rapt minstrel shares her awful throne!

O lover of her mountains and her woods, Her bridal chamber's leafy solitudes, Where Love himself with tremulous step intrudes,

Her snows fall harmless on thy sacred fire Far be the day that claims thy sounding lyre To join the music of the angel choir!

Yet, since life's amplest measure must be filled, Since throbbing hearts must be forever stilled, And all must fade that evening sunsets gild,

Grant, Father, ere he close the mortal eyes That see a Nation's reeking sacrifice, Its smoke may vanish from these blackened skies!

Then, when his summons comes, since come it must, And, looking heavenward with unfaltering trust, He wraps his drapery round him for the dust,

His last fond glance will show him o'er his head The Northern fires beyond the zenith spread In lambent glory, blue and white and red,--

The Southern cross without its bleeding load, The milky way of peace all freshly strowed, And every white-throned star fixed in its lost abode!

A FAREWELL TO AGa.s.sIZ

How the mountains talked together, Looking down upon the weather, When they heard our friend had planned his Little trip among the Andes!

How they'll bare their snowy scalps To the climber of the Alps When the cry goes through their pa.s.ses, "Here comes the great Aga.s.siz!"

"Yes, I'm tall," says Chimborazo, "But I wait for him to say so,-- That's the only thing that lacks,--he Must see me, Cotopaxi!"

"Ay! ay!" the fire-peak thunders, "And he must view my wonders!

I'm but a lonely crater Till I have him for spectator!"

The mountain hearts are yearning, The lava-torches burning, The rivers bend to meet him, The forests bow to greet him, It thrills the spinal column Of fossil fishes solemn, And glaciers crawl the faster To the feet of their old master!

Heaven keep him well and hearty, Both him and all his party!

From the sun that broils and smites, From the centipede that bites, From the hail-storm and the thunder, From the vampire and the condor, From the gust upon the river, From the sudden earthquake shiver, From the trip of mule or donkey, From the midnight howling monkey, From the stroke of knife or dagger, From the puma and the jaguar, From the horrid boa-constrictor That has scared us in the pictur', From the Indians of the Pampas Who would dine upon their grampas, From every beast and vermin That to think of sets us squirmin', From every snake that tries on The traveller his p'ison, From every pest of Natur', Likewise the alligator, And from two things left behind him,-- (Be sure they'll try to find him,) The tax-bill and a.s.sessor,-- Heaven keep the great Professor May he find, with his apostles, That the land is full of fossils, That the waters swarm with fishes Shaped according to his wishes, That every pool is fertile In fancy kinds of turtle, New birds around him singing, New insects, never stinging, With a million novel data About the articulata, And facts that strip off all husks From the history of mollusks.

And when, with loud Te Deum, He returns to his Museum, May he find the monstrous reptile That so long the land has kept ill By Grant and Sherman throttled, And by Father Abraham bottled, (All specked and streaked and mottled With the scars of murderous battles, Where he clashed the iron rattles That G.o.ds and men he shook at,) For all the world to look at.

G.o.d bless the great Professor!

And Madam, too, G.o.d bless her!

Bless him and all his band, On the sea and on the land, Bless them head and heart and hand, Till their glorious raid is o'er, And they touch our ransomed sh.o.r.e!

Then the welcome of a nation, With its shout of exultation, Shall awake the dumb creation, And the shapes of buried aeons Join the living creatures' poeans, Till the fossil echoes roar; While the mighty megalosaurus Leads the palaeozoic chorus,-- G.o.d bless the great Professor, And the land his proud possessor,-- Bless them now and evermore!

1865.

AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT

JULY 6, 1865

Now, smiling friends and shipmates all, Since half our battle 's won, A broadside for our Admiral!

Load every crystal gun Stand ready till I give the word,-- You won't have time to tire,-- And when that glorious name is heard, Then hip! hurrah! and fire!

Bow foremost sinks the rebel craft,-- Our eyes not sadly turn And see the pirates huddling aft To drop their raft astern; Soon o'er the sea-worm's destined prey The lifted wave shall close,-- So perish from the face of day All Freedom's banded foes!

But ah! what splendors fire the sky What glories greet the morn!

The storm-tost banner streams on high, Its heavenly hues new-born!

Its red fresh dyed in heroes' blood, Its peaceful white more pure, To float unstained o'er field and flood While earth and seas endure!

All shapes before the driving blast Must glide from mortal view; Black roll the billows of the past Behind the present's blue, Fast, fast, are lessening in the light The names of high renown,-- Van Tromp's proud besom fades from sight, And Nelson's half hull down!

Scarce one tall frigate walks the sea Or skirts the safer sh.o.r.es Of all that bore to victory Our stout old commodores; Hull, Bainbridge, Porter,--where are they?

The waves their answer roll, "Still bright in memory's sunset ray,-- G.o.d rest each gallant soul!"

A brighter name must dim their light With more than noontide ray, The Sea-King of the "River Fight,"

The Conqueror of the Bay,-- Now then the broadside! cheer on cheer To greet him safe on sh.o.r.e!

Health, peace, and many a bloodless year To fight his battles o'er!

AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT

JULY 31, 1865

WHEN treason first began the strife That crimsoned sea and sh.o.r.e, The Nation poured her h.o.a.rded life On Freedom's threshing-floor; From field and prairie, east and west, From coast and hill and plain, The sheaves of ripening manhood pressed Thick as the bearded grain.

Rich was the harvest; souls as true As ever battle tried; But fiercer still the conflict grew, The floor of death more wide; Ah, who forgets that dreadful day Whose blot of grief and shame Four bitter years scarce wash away In seas of blood and flame?

Vain, vain the Nation's lofty boasts,-- Vain all her sacrifice!

"Give me a man to lead my hosts, O G.o.d in heaven!" she cries.

While Battle whirls his crushing flail, And plies his winnowing fan,-- Thick flies the chaff on every gale,-- She cannot find her man!