"Is there no hope?" I moaned, "so strong, so fair!

Our Fowler whose proud bird would brook erewhile

No rival's swoop in all our western air! Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file For him, life's morn yet golden in his hair?

"Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying dames !

I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scanned

The stars, Earth's elders, still must noblest aims

Be traced upon oblivious ocean-sands? Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of names?"

Rather Truth's chaplet let me wear, Though sharp as death its thorns may sting;

Loyal to Loyalty, I bear

No badge but of my rightful king.

Patient by town and tower I wait,
Or o'er the blustering moorland go;
I buy no praise at cheaper rate,

Or what faint hearts may fancy so;
For me, no joy in lady's bower,
Or hall, or tourney, will I sing,
Till the slow stars wheel round the hour
That crowns my hero and my king.

While all the land runs red with strife,
And wealth is won by pedler-crimes,
Let who will find content in life
And tinkle in unmanly rhymes;
I wait and seek; through dark and
light,

Safe in my heart my hope I bring, Till I once more my faith may plight To him my whole soul owns her king.

When power is filched by drone and dolt,

And, with caught breath and flashing

eye,

Her knuckles whitening round the bolt, Vengeance leans eager from the sky, While this and that the people guess,

And to the skirts of praters cling, Who court the crowd they should compress,

I turn in scorn to seek my king.

Shut in what tower of darkling chance Or dungeon of a narrow doom, Dream'st thou of battle-axe and lance That for the Cross make crashing room?

Come with hushed breath the battle waits

In the wild van thy mace's swing; While doubters parley with their fates, Make thou thine own and ours, my king!

O, strong to keep upright the old,
And wise to buttress with the new,
Prudent, as only are the bold,
Clear-eyed, as only are the true,
To foes benign, to friendship stern,

MEMORIÆ POSITUM.

R. G. S.

I.

BENEATH the trees,

My life-long friends in this dear spot, Sad now for eyes that see them not I hear the autumnal breeze Wake the sear leaves to sigh for gladness gone,

Whispering hoarse presage of oblivion,

Hear, restless as the seas, Time's grim feet rustling through the withered grace

Of many a spreading realm and strongstemmed race,

Even as my own through these.

Why make we moan For loss that doth enrich us yet With upward yearnings of regret? Bleaker than unmossed stone Our lives were but for this immortal gain

Of unstilled longing and inspiring pain !

As thrills of long-hushed tone Live in the viol, so our souls grow fine

With keen vibrations from the touch divine

Of noble natures gone.

'T were indiscreet

To vex the shy and sacred grief
With harsh obtrusions of relief;

Yet, Verse, with noiseless feet, Go whisper: "This death hath far choicer ends

Than slowly to impearl in hearts of friends;

These obsequies 't is meet Not to seclude in closets of the heart, But, church-like, with wide doorways, to impart

Even to the heedless street."

II.

Brave, good, and true,

I see him stand before me now,
And read again on that young brow,
Where every hope was new,

ON BOARD THE '76.

WRITTEN FOR MR. BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.

NOVEMBER 3, 1864.

OUR ship lay tumbling in an angry sea, Her rudder gone, her main-mast o'er the side;

Her scuppers, from the waves' clutch staggering free

Trailed threads of priceless crimson through the tide :

Sails, shrouds, and spars with pirate cannon torn,

We lay, awaiting morn.

Awaiting morn, such morn as mocks despair;

And she that bore the promise of the world

Within her sides, now hopeless, helm. less, bare,

At random o'er the wildering waters hurled ;

The reek of battle drifting slow alee
Not sullener than we.

Morn came at last to peer into our

woe,

When lo, a sail! Now surely help was nigh;

The red cross flames aloft, Christ's pledge; but no,

Her black guns grinning hate, she rushes by

And hails us:-"Gains the leak! Ay, so we thought!

Sink, then, with curses fraught !

I leaned against my gun still angryhot,

And my lids tingled with the tears held back;

This scorn methought was crueller than shot:

The manly death-grip in the battlewrack, Yard-arm to yard-arm, were more friendly far

Than such fear-smothered war.