How long, O Lord, before thy Such earnest natures are the fiery wrath shall reap Our frail-stemmed summer prosperings in their flower? Oh for one hour of that undaunted stock That went with Vane and Sidney to the block! pith, The compact nucleus, round which systems grow; Mass after mass becomes inspired therewith, And whirls impregnate with the central glow. Oh for a whiff of Naseby, that O Truth! O Freedom! how are ye would sweep, With its stern Puritan besom, all this chaff From the Lord's threshing-floor! Yet more than half The victory is attained, when one or two, Through the fool's laughter and the traitor's scorn, Beside thy sepulchre can bide the morn, Crucified Truth, when thou shalt rise anew. TO W. L. GARRISON Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city officers that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor; that his office was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his supporters a few very insignificant persons of all colors.' Letter of H. G. Otis. IN a small chamber, friendless and unseen, Toiled o'er his types one poor, unlearned young man ; The place was dark, unfurnitured, and mean; Yet there the freedom of a race began. Help came but slowly; surely no man yet Put lever to the heavy world with less: What need of help? He knew Men of a thousand shifts and how types were set, wiles, look here! He had a dauntless spirit, and a See press. one straightforward conscience put in pawn To win a world; see the obedient To give the truth one martyr more, Then shut, and here behold the end! sphere By bravery's simple gravitation drawn! Shall we not heed the lesson taught of old, And by the Present's lips repeated still, In our own single manhood to be bold, Fortressed in conscience and impregnable will? O Mother State! when this was done, No pitying throe thy bosom gave; Silent thou saw'st the death- And now thou givest to thy son Must it be thus forever? No! The hand of God sows not in vain, We stride the river daily at its spring, Nor, in our childless thought- Long sleeps the darkling seed belessness, foresee low, What myriad vassal streams shall The seasons come, and change, tribute bring, How like an equal it shall greet the sea. and go, And all the fields are deep with grain. O small beginnings, ye are great Although our brother lie asleep, WOE worth the hour when it is It hears amid the eternal hush The glorious throbs that conquer Not man's brute vengeance, such ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF Man's hope lies quenched; and, DR. CHANNING I Do not come to weep above thy pall, And mourn the dying-out of noble powers, The poet's clearer eye should see, in all lo! with steadfast gain Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates. Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and cross Make up the groaning record of the past; Earth's seeming woe, seed of But Evil's triumphs are her end immortal flowers. less loss, sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings To soar where hence thy Hope could hardly fly. 40 And often, from that other world, on this Some gleams from great souls gone before may shine, The poor are crushed; the tyrants To shed on struggling hearts a link their chain; The poet sings through narrow dungeon-grates; clearer bliss, And clothe the Right with lustre more divine. Thou art not idle: in thy higher sphere Busy, like thine, for Freedom and the Right; Thy spirit bends itself to loving Oh, may this soul, like thine, be Yet thou hast called him, nor art His epitaph shall mock the short Let laurelled marbles weigh on 'Here lies a Poet. Stranger, if to other tombs, Let anthems peal for other dead, Rustling the bannered depth of minster-glooms With their exulting spread. thee His claim to memory be obscure, If thou wouldst learn how truly great was he, Go, ask it of the poor.' THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL According to the mythology of the Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus partook of the Last Supper with his disciples. It was brought into England by Joseph of Arimathea, and remained there, an object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many years in the keeping of his lineal descendants. It was incumbent upon those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word, and deed; but one of the keepers having broken this condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was a favorite enterprise of the knights of Arthur's court to go in search of it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in finding it, as may be read in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the subject of one of the most exquisite of his poems. The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of the following poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I have enlarged the circle of competition in search of the miraculous cup in such a manner as to include, not only other persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period of time subsequent to the supposed date of King Arthur's reign. PRELUDE TO PART FIRST OVER his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dream land for his lay: Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream. Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not. Over our manhood bend the skies; lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives; Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite ; |