But who is he whose ma.s.sive frame belies The maiden shyness of his downcast eyes?

Who broods in silence till, by questions pressed, Some answer struggles from his laboring breast?

An artist Nature meant to dwell apart, Locked in his studio with a human heart, Tracking its eaverned pa.s.sions to their lair, And all its throbbing mysteries laying bare.

Count it no marvel that he broods alone Over the heart he studies,--'t is his own; So in his page, whatever shape it wear, The Ess.e.x wizard's shadowed self is there,-- The great ROMANCER, hid beneath his veil Like the stern preacher of his sombre tale; Virile in strength, yet bashful as a girl, Prouder than Hester, sensitive as Pearl.

From his mild throng of worshippers released, Our Concord Delphi sends its chosen priest, Prophet or poet, mystic, sage, or seer, By every t.i.tle always welcome here.

Why that ethereal spirit's frame describe?

You know the race-marks of the Brahmin tribe, The spare, slight form, the sloping shoulders' droop, The calm, scholastic mien, the clerkly stoop, The lines of thought the sharpened features wear, Carved by the edge of keen New England air.

List! for he speaks! As when a king would choose The jewels for his bride, he might refuse This diamond for its flaw,--find that less bright Than those, its fellows, and a pearl less white Than fits her snowy neck, and yet at last, The fairest gems are chosen, and made fast In golden fetters; so, with light delays He seeks the fittest word to fill his phrase; Nor vain nor idle his fastidious quest, His chosen word is sure to prove the best.

Where in the realm of thought, whose air is song, Does he, the Buddha of the West, belong?

He seems a winged Franklin, sweetly wise, Born to unlock the secrets of the skies; And which the n.o.bler calling,--if 't is fair Terrestrial with celestial to compare,-- To guide the storm-cloud's elemental flame, Or walk the chambers whence the lightning came, Amidst the sources of its subtile fire, And steal their effluence for his lips and lyre?

If lost at times in vague aerial flights, None treads with firmer footstep when he lights; A soaring nature, ballasted with sense, Wisdom without her wrinkles or pretence, In every Bible he has faith to read, And every altar helps to shape his creed.

Ask you what name this prisoned spirit bears While with ourselves this fleeting breath it shares?

Till angels greet him with a sweeter one In heaven, on earth we call him EMERSON.

I start; I wake; the vision is withdrawn; Its figures fading like the stars at dawn; Crossed from the roll of life their cherished names, And memory's pictures fading in their frames; Yet life is lovelier for these transient gleams Of buried friendships; blest is he who dreams!

OUR DEAD SINGER

H. W. L.

PRIDE of the sister realm so long our own, We claim with her that spotless fame of thine, White as her snow and fragrant as her pine!

Ours was thy birthplace, but in every zone Some wreath of song thy liberal hand has thrown Breathes perfume from its blossoms, that entwine Where'er the dewdrops fall, the sunbeams shine, On life's long path with tangled cares o'ergrown.

Can Art thy truthful counterfeit command,-- The silver-haloed features, tranquil, mild,-- Soften the lips of bronze as when they smiled, Give warmth and pressure to the marble hand?

Seek the lost rainbow in the sky it spanned Farewell, sweet Singer! Heaven reclaims its child.

Carved from the block or cast in clinging mould, Will grateful Memory fondly try her best The mortal vesture from decay to wrest; His look shall greet us, calm, but ah, how cold!

No breath can stir the brazen drapery's fold, No throb can heave the statue's stony breast; "He is not here, but risen," will stand confest In all we miss, in all our eyes behold.

How Nature loved him! On his placid brow, Thought's ample dome, she set the sacred sign That marks the priesthood of her holiest shrine, Nor asked a leaflet from the laurel's bough That envious Time might clutch or disallow, To prove her chosen minstrel's song divine.

On many a saddened hearth the evening fire Burns paler as the children's hour draws near,-- That joyous hour his song made doubly dear,-- And tender memories touch the faltering choir.

He sings no more on earth; our vain desire Aches for the voice we loved so long to hear In Dorian flute-notes breathing soft and clear,-- The sweet contralto that could never tire.

Deafened with listening to a harsher strain, The Maenad's scream, the stark barbarian's cry, Still for those soothing, loving tones we sigh; Oh, for our vanished Orpheus once again!

The shadowy silence hears us call in vain!

His lips are hushed; his song shall never die.

TWO POEMS TO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, JUNE 14, 1882

I. AT THE SUMMIT

SISTER, we bid you welcome,--we who stand On the high table-land; We who have climbed life's slippery Alpine slope, And rest, still leaning on the staff of hope, Looking along the silent Mer de Glace, Leading our footsteps where the dark creva.s.se Yawns in the frozen sea we all must pa.s.s,-- Sister, we clasp your hand!

Rest with us in the hour that Heaven has lent Before the swift descent.

Look! the warm sunbeams kiss the glittering ice; See! next the snow-drift blooms the edelweiss; The mated eagles fan the frosty air; Life, beauty, love, around us everywhere, And, in their time, the darkening hours that bear Sweet memories, peace, content.

Thrice welcome! shining names our missals show Amid their rubrics' glow, But search the blazoned record's starry line, What halo's radiance fills the page like thine?

Thou who by some celestial clue couldst find The way to all the hearts of all mankind, On thee, already canonized, enshrined, What more can Heaven bestow!

II. THE WORLD'S HOMAGE

IF every tongue that speaks her praise For whom I shape my tinkling phrase Were summoned to the table, The vocal chorus that would meet Of mingling accents harsh or sweet, From every land and tribe, would beat The polyglots at Babel.

Briton and Frenchman, Swede and Dane, Turk, Spaniard, Tartar of Ukraine, Hidalgo, Cossack, Cadi, High Dutchman and Low Dutchman, too, The Russian serf, the Polish Jew, Arab, Armenian, and Mantchoo, Would shout, "We know the lady!"

Know her! Who knows not Uncle Tom And her he learned his gospel from Has never heard of Moses; Full well the brave black hand we know That gave to freedom's grasp the hoe That killed the weed that used to grow Among the Southern roses.

When Archimedes, long ago, Spoke out so grandly, "_dos pou sto_-- Give me a place to stand on, I'll move your planet for you, now,"-- He little dreamed or fancied how The _sto_ at last should find its _pou_ For woman's faith to land on.

Her lever was the wand of art, Her fulcrum was the human heart, Whence all unfailing aid is; She moved the earth! Its thunders pealed, Its mountains shook, its temples reeled, The blood-red fountains were unsealed, And Moloch sunk to Hades.

All through the conflict, up and down Marched Uncle Tom and Old John Brown, One ghost, one form ideal; And which was false and which was true, And which was mightier of the two, The wisest sibyl never knew, For both alike were real.

Sister, the holy maid does well Who counts her beads in convent cell, Where pale devotion lingers; But she who serves the sufferer's needs, Whose prayers are spelt in loving deeds, May trust the Lord will count her beads As well as human fingers.

When Truth herself was Slavery's slave, Thy hand the prisoned suppliant gave The rainbow wings of fiction.

And Truth who soared descends to-day Bearing an angel's wreath away, Its lilies at thy feet to lay With Heaven's own benediction.

A WELCOME TO DR. BENJAMIN APTHORP GOULD

ON HIS RETURN FROM SOUTH AMERICA

AFTER FIFTEEN YEARS DEVOTED TO CATALOGUING THE STARS OF THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE

Read at the Dinner given at the Hotel Vendome, May 6,1885.

ONCE more Orion and the sister Seven Look on thee from the skies that hailed thy birth,-- How shall we welcome thee, whose home was heaven, From thy celestial wanderings back to earth?

Science has kept her midnight taper burning To greet thy coming with its vestal flame; Friendship has murmured, "When art thou returning?"

"Not yet! Not yet!" the answering message came.

Thine was unstinted zeal, unchilled devotion, While the blue realm had kingdoms to explore,-- Patience, like his who ploughed the unfurrowed ocean, Till o'er its margin loomed San Salvador.

Through the long nights I see thee ever waking, Thy footstool earth, thy roof the hemisphere, While with thy griefs our weaker hearts are aching, Firm as thine equatorial's rock-based pier.