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We that had loved him so, followed him, honored
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us-they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
We shall march prospering-not through his pres
Songs may inspirit us—not from his lyre; Deeds will be done-while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name then-record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins : let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, Forced praise on our part-the glimmer of twilight, Never glad, confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,
Aim at our heart, ere we pierce through his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
DRIVING HOME THE COWS.
OUT of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He turned them into the river-lane;
Under the willows, and over the hill,
Only a boy! and his father had said
Under the feet of the trampling foe.
But after the evening work was done,
And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun
And stealthily followed the foot-path damp.
Across the clover and through the wheat
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain ; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again.
The summer day grew cool and late,
He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming one by one,—
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,
Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air
The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair
For gloomy prisons will sometimes yawn,
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;
Together they followed the cattle home.
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
DRAWN by horses with decorous feet,
A carriage for one went through the street,
The passenger lay in Parian rest,
He rode in state, but his carriage-fare
The driver sat in his silent seat;
The world, as still as a field of wheat, Gave all the road to the speechless twain, And thought the passenger never again Should travel that way with living men.
Not a robin held its little breath,