. The poetical works of Fitz-Greene Halleck : Now first collected ; illustrated with steel engravings, from drawings by American artists . n in his manly eyeAnd on his manly brow. Praise to the bard ! his words are driven,Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, Whereer, beneath the sky of heaven,The birds of fame have flown. Praise to the man ! a nation stoodBeside 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 payTo consecrated ground. E And consecrate
. The poetical works of Fitz-Greene Halleck : Now first collected ; illustrated with steel engravings, from drawings by American artists . n in his manly eyeAnd on his manly brow. Praise to the bard ! his words are driven,Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, Whereer, beneath the sky of heaven,The birds of fame have flown. Praise to the man ! a nation stoodBeside 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 payTo consecrated ground. E And consecrated ground it is, The last, the hallowed home of one 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 wisdoms 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 Fortunes dimmer star,Are there—oer wave and mountain come, From countries near and far;. BURNS. 35 Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressedThe Switzers snow, the Arabs sand, 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 sung, And gather feelings not of earthHis fields and streams among. They linger by the Doons low trees,And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries !The poets tomb is there. But what to them the sculptors art, His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns ? Wear they not graven on the heartThe name of Robert Burns ? Dites si la Nature na pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire,et pour un St. Preux, mais ne les y cherchez pas.—Rousseau. I. Thou comst, in beauty, on my gaze at last, On Susquehannas side, fair Wyoming !Image of many a dream, in hours long past,When life was in its bud and blossom
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