Let History boast of her Romans and Spartans,
And tell how they stood against tyranny's shock;
They were all, I confess, in my eye, Betty Martins
    Compared to George Grote and his wonderful Box.

Ask, where Liberty now has her seat?--Oh, it isn't
    By Delaware's banks or on Switzerland's rocks;--
Like an imp in some conjuror's bottle imprisoned,
    She's slyly shut up in Grote's wonderful Box.

How snug!--'stead of floating thro' ether's dominions,
    Blown this way and that, by the "populi vox,"
To fold thus in silence her sinecure pinions,
    And go fast asleep in Grote's wonderful Box.

Time was, when free speech was the life-breath of freedom--
    So thought once the Seldens, the Hampdens, the Lockes;
But mute be <...

Republicans of differing views
Are pro or con protection;
If that's the issue they would choose,
Why, we have no objection.
The issue we propose concerns
Our hearts and homes more nearly:
A wife to whom the nation turns
And venerates so dearly.
So, confident of what shall be,
Our gallant host advances,
Giving three cheers for Grover C.
And three times three for Frances!

So gentle is that honored dame,
And fair beyond all telling,
The very mention of her name
Sets every breast to swelling.
She wears no mortal crown of gold--
No courtiers fawn around her--
But with their love young hearts and old
In loyalty have crowned her--
And so with Grover and his bride
We're proud to take our chances,
And it's three times three for the t...

Clear sounds the call on high:
"To arms and victory!"
Brave hearts that win or die,
        Dying, may win;
Proudly the banners wave,
What though the goal's the grave?
Death cannot harm the brave, -
        Through death they win.

Softly the evening hush
Stilling strife's maddened rush
Cools the fierce battle flush, -
        See the day die;
A thousand faces white
Mirror the cold moonlight
And glassy eyes are bright
        With Victory.

Tested and staunch through many a changing year,
Gelert, his master's faithful hound, lies here.
Humble in friendship, but in service proud,
He gave to man whate'er his lot allowed;
And, rich in love, on each well-trusted friend
Spent all his wealth and still had more to spend.
Now, reft beyond the unfriendly Stygian tide,
For these he yearns and has no wish beside.

Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine,
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!", but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
"No more, no more, no more",
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy foo...

Let the superstitious wife
Near the child's heart lay a knife:
Point be up, and haft be down
(While she gossips in the town);
This, 'mongst other mystic charms,
Keeps the sleeping child from harms.

The wave is breaking on the shore,
The echo fading from the chime;
Again the shadow moveth o'er
The dial-plate of time!
O seer-seen Angel! waiting now
With weary feet on sea and shore,
Impatient for the last dread vow
That time shall be no more!
Once more across thy sleepless eye
The semblance of a smile has passed:
The year departing leaves more nigh
Time's fearfullest and last.
Oh, in that dying year hath been
The sum of all since time began;
The birth and death, the joy and pain,
Of Nature and of Man.
Spring, with her change of sun and shower,
And streams released from Winter's chain,
And bursting bud, and opening flower,
And greenly growing grain;
And Summer's shade, and sunshine warm,
And rainbows o'er her hill-tops bowed,
An...

    Waking in the night to pray,
    Sleeping when the answer comes,
    Foolish are we even at play--
    Tearfully we beat our drums!
    Cast the good dry bread away,
    Weep, and gather up the crumbs!

    "Evermore," while shines the day,
    "Lord," we cry, "thy will be done!"
    Soon as evening groweth gray,
    Thy fair will we fain would shun!
    "Take, oh, take thy hand away!
    See the horrid dark begun!"

    "Thou hast conquered Death," we say,
    "Christ, whom Hades could not keep!"
    Then, "Ah, see the pallid clay!
    Death it is," we cry, "not sleep!
    Grave, take all. Shut out the Day.
    Sit we on the ground and weep!"

    Gathering potsherds all the day,
    Truant children, Lord, we roam;
    F...

As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,
Still on that vision which is flown I dwell,
On images I loved, alas, too well!
Now past, and but remembered like sweet sounds
Of yesterday! Yet in my breast I keep
Such recollections, painful though they seem,
And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream
I start, and find them not; then I could weep
To think how Fortune blights the fairest flowers;
To think how soon life's first endearments fail,
And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale,
Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours
Pass, and when most we call on her to stay,
Will fly, as faithless and as fleet as they!

I.

    O thou dread Power, who reign'st above!
        I know thou wilt me hear,
    When for this scene of peace and love
        I make my prayer sincere.

II.

    The hoary sire, the mortal stroke,
        Long, long, be pleased to spare;
    To bless his filial little flock
        And show what good men are.

III.

    She who her lovely offspring eyes
        With tender hopes and fears,
    O, bless her with a mother's joys,
        But spare a mother's tears!

IV.

    Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
        In manhood's dawning blush,
    Bless him, thou GOD of love and truth,
        Up to a parent's wish!

V.

    The beauteous, seraph sister-band,
        With...

    He that goes to see his wheat in May,
    Comes weeping away.

Spend, harmless shade, thy nightly hours
Selecting here both herbs and flowers;
Of which make garlands here and there
To dress thy silent sepulchre.
Nor do thou fear the want of these
In everlasting properties,
Since we fresh strewings will bring hither,
Far faster than the first can wither.

I have seen that which sweeter is
Than happy dreams come true.
I have heard that which echo is
Of speech past all I ever knew.
Vision and echo, come again,
Nor let me grieve in easeless pain!

It was a hill I saw, that rose
Like smoke over the street,
Whose greening rampires were upreared
Suddenly almost at my feet;
And tall trees nodded tremblingly
Making the plain day visionary.

But ah, the song, the song I heard
And grieve to hear no more!
It was not angel-voice, nor child's
Singing alone and happy, nor
Note of the wise prophetic thrush
As lonely in the leafless bush.

It was not these, and yet I knew
That song; but now, alas,
My unpurged ears prove all too gross
To keep the nameless air that was
And is not; and...

    A field in common share
        A partridge and a hare,
    And live in peaceful state,
    Till, woeful to relate!
    The hunters' mingled cry
    Compels the hare to fly.
    He hurries to his fort,
    And spoils almost the sport
    By faulting every hound
    That yelps upon the ground.
    At last his reeking heat
    Betrays his snug retreat.
Old Tray, with philosophic nose,
Snuffs carefully, and grows
    So certain, that he cries,
        "The hare is here; bow wow!"
        And veteran Ranger now,--
    The dog that never lies,--
    "The hare is gone," replies.
    Alas! poor, wretched hare,
    Back comes he to his lair,
    To meet destruction there!
    The partridge, void of fear,
    Begins her friend to ...

Without, the sullen noises of the street!
The voice of London, inarticulate,
Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet
The silent blessing of the Immaculate.

Dark is the church, and dim the worshippers,
Hushed with bowed heads as though by some old spell.
While through the incense-laden air there stirs
The admonition of a silver bell.

Dark is the church, save where the altar stands,
Dressed like a bride, illustrious with light,
Where one old priest exalts with tremulous hands
The one true solace of man's fallen plight.

Strange silence here: without, the sounding street
Heralds the world's swift passage to the fire:
O Benediction, perfect and complete!
When shall men cease to suffer and desire?

God permits industrious angels
Afternoons to play.
I met one, -- forgot my school-mates,
All, for him, straightway.

God calls home the angels promptly
At the setting sun;
I missed mine. How dreary marbles,
After playing Crown!

Here grandeur triumphs at its topmost pitch
In gardens, groves, and all that life beguiles;
Here want, too, meets a blessing from the rich,
And hospitality for ever smiles:
Soldier or sailor, from his many toils,
Here finds no cause to rail at pomp and pride;
He shows his scars, and talks of battle's broils,
And wails his poverty, and is supplied.
No dogs bark near, the fainting wretch to chide,
That bows to misery his aged head,
And tells how better luck did once betide,
And how he came to beg his crust of bread:
Here he but sighs his sorrows and is fed--
Mansion of wealth, by goodness dignified!

To-day, across our fathers' graves,
The astonished years reveal
The remnant of that desperate host
Which cleansed our East with steel.

Hail and farewell! We greet you here,
With tears that none will scorn,
O Keepers of the House of old,
Or ever we were born!

One service more we dare to ask,
Pray for us, heroes, pray,
That when Fate lays on us our task
We do not shame the Day!