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Samuel Miller Hageman.


Only a little child, Crushed to death to-day in the mart; But the whole unhorizoned kingdom of heaven

Was in that little heart.

Only a grain of sand, swirled up where the sea lies spent; But it holds wherever it be in space

The poise of a continent.

Only a minute gone, That to think of now is vain; Ah! that was the minute without whose link

Had dropped Eternity's chain.


Side by side rise the two fjjreat cities,

Afar on the traveller's sight; One, black with the dust of labor,

One, solemnly still and white. Apart, and yet together,

They are reached in a dying breath, But a river flows between them,

And the river's name is — Death

Apart, and yet together,

Together, and yet apart,
As the child may die at midnight

On the mother's living heart.
So close come the two great cities,

With only the river between;
And the grass in the one is trampled,

But the grass in the other is green.

The hills with uncovered foreheads,

Like the disciples meet, While ever the flowing water

Is washing their hallowed feet. And out on the glassy ocean,

The sails in the golden gloom Seem to me but moving shadows

Of the white emmarbled tomb.

Anon, from the hut and the palace Anon, from early till late,

They come, rich and poor together,
Asking alms at thy beautif ul gate.

And never had life a guerdon
So welcome to all to give,

In the land where the living are doing.

As the land where the dead may live.

O silent city of refuge

On the way to the city o'erhead! The gleam of thy marble milestones

Tells the distance we are from the dead.

Full of feet, but a city untrodden.

Full of hands, but a city unbuilt, Full of strangers who know not even

That their life-cup lies there spilt.

They know not the tomb from the palace,

They dream not they ever have died:

God be thanked they never will know it

Till they live on the other side! From the doors that death shut coldly

On the face of their last lone woe: They came to thy glades for shelter

Who had nowhere else to go.

Fitz-greene Halleck.


At midnight in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour

When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power: In dreams, through camp and court

he bore The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;

Then wore his monarch's signet ring: Then pressed that monarch's throne

— a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of


As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,

True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood.

There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Platsea's day; And now there breathed that haunted air

The sons of sires who conquered there,

With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke;

That bright dream was his last; He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! thev come! the Greek! the Greek!"" He woke — to die midst flame and smoke,

And shout, and groan, and sabrestroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast

As lightnings from the mountaincloud;

And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band. "Strike — till the last armed foe expires;

Strike — for your altars and your fires;

Strike — for the green graves of your sires:

God, and your native land!"

They fought,— like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered — but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their proud hur-

And the red field was won:
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death! Come to the mother's, when she feels.

For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in Consumption's ghastly form,

The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;

Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet-song, and dance,

and wine; And thou art terrible — the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the


And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;

And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of fame is

wrought — Come with her laurel-leaf, bloodbought — Come in her crowning hour — and then

Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind, from woods of palm,

And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytien seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave, Greece nurtured in her glory's time,

Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime.

She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,

Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb: But she remembers thee as one Long loved and for a season gone. For thee her poets' lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music

breathed: For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells: For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.

And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,

And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh: For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,

One of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die.


Wild rose of Alloway 1 my thanks; Thou mind'st me of that autumn noon

When first we met upon "the banks And braes o' bonny Boon."

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough,

My sunny hour was glad and brief We've crossed the winter sea, and thou

Art withered — flower and leaf.

And will not thy death-doom be mine —

The doom of all things wrought of clay?

And withered my life's leaf like thine, Wild Rose of Alloway?

Not so his memory for whose sake My bosom bore thee far and long,

His, who a humbler flower could make Immortal as his song.

The memory of Burns — a name That calls, when brimmed her festal cup,

A nation's glory and her shame,
In silent sadness up.

A nation'8 glory — be the rest
Forgot — she' s canonized his mind,

And it is joy to speak the best
We may of humankind.

I've stood beside the cottage-bed Where the bard-peasant first drew breath;

A straw-thatched roof above his head,

A straw-wrought couch beneath.

And I have stood beside the pile,
His monument—that tells to heaven

The homage of earth's proudest isle
To that bard-peasant given.

Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot,

Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming

And know, however low his lot,
A poet's pride and power;

The pride that lifted Burns from earth,

The power that gave a child of


Ascendency o'er rank and birth,
The rich, the brave, the strong;

And if despondency weigh down
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then,

Despair — thy name is written on
The roll of common men.

There have been loftier themes than


And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, And lays lit up with Poesy's Purer and holier fires;

Yet read the names that know not death;

Few nobler ones than Burns are there;

And few have won a greener wreath Than that which binds his hair.

His is that language of the heart In which the answering heart would speak,

Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek;

And his that music to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time,

In cot or castle's mirth or moan,
In cold or sunny clime.

And who hath heard his song, nor knelt

Before its spell with willing knee, And listened, and believed, and felt The poet's mastery

O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm.

O'er the heart's sunshine and its


O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm,

O'er Reason's dark, cold hours;

On fields where brave men "die or do,"

In halls where rings the banquet's mirth,

Where mourners weep, where lovers woo,

From throne to cottage hearth?

What sweet tears dim the eye unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue,

When "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,"

Or " Auld Lang Syne," is sung!

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise,

And dreams of youth, and truth, and love

With "Logan's" banks and braes.

And when he breathes his master-lay
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall,

All passions in our frames of clay
Come thronging at his call.

Imagination's world of air,
And our own world, its gloom and

Wit, pathos, poetry, are there,
And death's sublimity.

And Burns, though brief the race he ran,

Though rough and dark the path he trod — Lived, died, in form and soul a man. The image of his God.

Through care, and pain, and want,
and woe,
With wounds that only death could

Tortures the poor alone can know,
The proud alone can feel;

He kept his honesty and truth,
His independent tongue and pen,

And moved, in manhood as in youth,
Pride of his fellow-men.

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong,

A hate of tyrant and of knave, A love of right, a scorn of wrong, Of coward and of slave;

A kind, true heart, a spirit high, That could not fear and would not bow,

Were written in his manly eye
And on his manly brow.

Praise to the bard! his words are driven,

Like flower-seeds by the far winds down,

Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, The birds of fame have flown.

Praise to the man! a nation stood Beside his coffin with wet eyes, her brave, her beautiful, her good, As when a loved one dies.

And still, as on his funeral-day, Men stand his cold earth-couch around,

With the mute homage that we pay To consecrated ground.

And consecrated ground it is,
The last, the hallowed home of

Who lives upon all memories,
Though with the buried gone.

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, Shrines to no code or creed confined —

The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind.

Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed, Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power, And warriors with their bright swords sheathed, The mightiest of the hour.

And lowlier names, whose humble home

Is lit by fortune's dimmer star, Are there — o'er wave and mountain come,

From countries near and far;

Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have pressed Island,

The Switzer's snow, the Arab's Or trod the piled leaves of the west,

My own green forest land.

All ask the cottage of his birth,
Gaze on the scenes he loved and

And gather feelings not of earth
His field and streams among.

They linger by the Doon's low trees,
And pastoral Kith, and wooded

And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries!

The Poet's tomb is there.

But what to them the sculptor's art, His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns?

Wear they not graven on the heart
The name of Robert Burns?


Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep.

And long where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

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