What! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his cell, Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn her frown? Brave Luther answered YES; that thunder's swell ON THE DEATH OF C. T. TORREY. WOE worth the hour when it is crime To plead the poor dumb bondman's cause, When all that makes the heart sublime, Rocked Europe, and discharmed the The glorious throbs that conquer time, triple crown. Whatever can be known of earth we know, Sneered Europe's wise men, in their No! said one man in Genoa, and that Out of the darkness summoned this Who is it will not dare himself to trust? Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward Are traitors to our cruel laws! He strove among God's suffering poor One gleam of brotherhood to send; The dungeon oped its hungry door To give the truth one martyr more, Then shut, and here behold the end! O Mother State! when this was done, And now thou givest to thy son He and his works, like sand, from Must it be thus forever? No! earth are blown. The hand of God sows not in vain ; Although our brother lie asleep, His grave shall quiver yet, while deep Her ancient energies and fires. When hours like this the senses' gush Have stilled, and left the spirit room, Not man's brute vengeance, such as renda What rivets man to man apart,- ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. I Do not come to weep above thy pall, powers; The poet's clearer eye should see, in all | And lives unwithered in its blithesome Earth's seeming woe, seed of immor tal flowers. youth, When he who called it forth is but a name. Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone; The better part of thee is with us still; Thy soul its hampering clay aside hath thrown, And only freer wrestles with the Ill. Thou livest in the life of all good things; What words thou spak'st for Freedom shall not die; Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings To soar where hence thy Hope could hardly fly. And often, from that other world, on this Some gleams from great souls gone before may shine, To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss, And clothe the Right with lustre more divine. Thou art not idle: in thy higher sphere Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks, And strength to perfect what it dreamed of here Is all the crown and glory that it asks. For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room For love and pity, and for helpful deeds; Else were our summons thither but a doom To life more vain than this in clayey weeds. From off the starry mountain-peak of song, Thy spirit shows me, in the coming time, An earth unwithered by the foot of wrong, A race revering its own soul sublime. What wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes, may come, Thou knowest not, nor I; but God will lead The prodigal soul from want and sorrow | Thou knowest how much a gentle soul cunning too; Soon shall this soul, like thine, bewildered stand, Then leap to thread the free, unfathomed blue: When that day comes, O, may this hand grow cold, Busy, like thine, for Freedom and the O, may this soul, like thine, be ever bold To face dark Slavery's encroaching blight! This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier; Let worthier hands than these thy wreath intwine; Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear,For us weep rather thou in calm di 1842. vine ! TO THE MEMORY OF HOOD. ANOTHER Star 'neath Time's horizon dropped, To gleam o'er unknown lands and seas; Another heart that beat for freedom stopped, What mournful words are these! Let laurelled marbles weigh on other tombs, Let anthems peal for other dead, Rustling the bannered depth of minsterglooms With their exulting spread. His epitaph shall mock the short-lived stone, No lichen shall its lines efface, He needs these few and simple lines alone To mark his resting-place : "Here lies a Poet. Stranger, if to thee His claim to memory be obscure, O Love Divine, that claspest our tired If thou wouldst learn how truly great earth, And lullest it upon thy heart, was he, Go, ask it of the poor." THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer. And what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays: Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing! Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now, Everything is upward striving; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, "T is the natural way of living: Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow? PART FIRST. I. "My golden spurs now bring to me, And bring to me my richest mail, For to-morrow I go over land and sea 'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be, She could not scale the chilly wall, Though around it for leagues her pa vilions tall Stretched left and right, Green and broad was every tent, |