When Goethe's death was told, we said

Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head.

Physician of the Iron Age

Goethe has done his pilgrimage.

He took the suffering human race,

He read each wound, each weakness clear
And struck his finger on the place

And said

Thou ailest here, and here.

He look'd on Europe's dying hour

Of fitful dream and feverish power;

His eye plung'd down the weltering strife,
The turmoil of expiring life;

He said The end is everywhere:

Art still has truth, take refuge there.
And he was happy, if to know
Causes of things, and far below
His feet to see the lurid flow
Of terror, and insane distress,
And headlong fate, be happiness.

And Wordsworth!

Ah, pale Ghosts, rejoice!

For never has such soothing voice

Been to your shadowy world convey'd,
Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade
Heard the clear song of Orpheus come

Through Hades, and the mournful gloom.
Wordsworth has gone from us —
and ye,

Ah, may ye feel his voice as we.
He too upon a wintry clime

Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. He found us when the age had bound Our souls in its benumbing round:

He spoke, and loos'd our heart in tears. He laid us as we lay at birth

On the cool flowery lap of earth;

Smiles broke from us and we had ease.
The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again :
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth return'd: for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely-furl'd,
The freshness of the early world.

Ah, since dark days still bring to light
Man's prudence and man's fiery might,
Time may restore us in his course
Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force :
But where will Europe's latter hour
Again find Wordsworth's healing power?
Others will teach us how to dare,
And against fear our breast to steel:
Others will strengthen us to bear

But who, ah who, will make us feel?
The cloud of mortal destiny,

Others will front it fearlessly

But who, like him, will put it by?

Keep fresh the grass upon his

O Rotha! with thy living wave.

grave,

Sing him thy best! for few or none Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.

REVOLUTIONS.

BEFORE Man parted for this earthly strand, While yet upon the verge of heaven he stood, God put a heap of letters in his hand,

And bade him make with them what word he could.

And Man has turn'd them many times: made Greece, Rome, England, France: - yes, nor in vain essay'd Way after way, changes that never cease.

The letters have combin'd: something was made.

But ah, an inextinguishable sense

Haunts him that he has not made what he should.
That he has still, though old, to recommence,
Since he has not yet found the word God would.

And Empire after Empire, at their height
Of sway, have felt this boding sense come on.
Have felt their huge frames not constructed right,
And droop'd, and slowly died upon their throne.

One day thou say'st there will at last appear

The word, the order, which God meant should be. -
Ah, we shall know that well when it comes near:

The band will quit Man's heart :— he will breathe free.