Shall be the deeds of love. Not Credo then,- For Hope may anchor, Faith may steer, but Love, This poem won rapid recognition in America, and among those who cordially acknowledged its merits were the poet and essayist, Oliver Wendell Holmes. It is pleasant to give the story of their recognition in my brother's own words. "I sent or asked the Ticknors to send a copy of the second edition of the poem. . . . I can only say in its behalf that the whole story, plot and characters are original, and conceived and carried out on a definite plan. I enjoyed writing it. By some special benediction it has given me, according to Dr. O. W. Holmes, a first-class place among writers of verse. I hardly think I would like to say this to any but you. It sounds self-conceited. But I hope such feelings are not within me.' In 1887 he went for a year's tour to the Mediterranean. In this trip he was able to gratify his long-felt wish to visit Greece. As the steamer drew near to its classic shores, his eager enthusiasm knew no bounds: he began to climb high upon the mast to catch the first glimpse of the land of his studies and his dreams. After this tour he returned with fresh inspirations for his work. He gave courses of lectures, and prepared for an extended tour through the States; but he did not live to accomplish this purpose. On the evening of July 16, 1890, he entertained a party of friends with his usual vivacity and fascination ; he was full of plans, hopes and high spirits; but the next morning brought the end. As he was dressing, he fell; a clot of blood had reached the heart. The editor of his posthumous work wrote in a kind and generously appreciative preface: "the warm heart had ceased to throb, the gifted brain was dead, the eloquent tongue was silent for ever." "Happily," continued the same writer, "the world has not lost his beautiful lyrics. The poet remains, though the orator's voice be silent. Dearer than either, remains the memory of the man, simple, frank, kindly, generous in thought and word and deed. Peace to his gentle spirit." So wrote Mr. James Jeffrey Roche in his preface to a volume entitled, A Poet's Last Songs. The last songs contained many delightful pieces. Three of these I give, feeling sure that their thought and music will be welcome. to those who are strangers to this work. ANTITHETA «Ἐκ τῶν ἐναντίων κάλλιστη ἁρμονια.” ARISTOTLE, Lo, Death and Sorrow and Pain are sweet, When all we feel shall be understood. Then lift thy face into Sorrow's rain, Yea, deem it sweet as the spring's young breath; Stoop low and drink of the pool of Pain, Dip thy Life's urn in the well of Death. D For Bliss is painlike, and Pain is bliss, And Love must weep till the dawn of day. Then Death shall waken at Life's warm kiss, And Joy wed Sorrow in smiles for aye. PEARLS Say not I never throw to fool or clown My goodly pearls; for swine I ne'er amassed them. Say rather Are these pearls which I cast down, And are those always swine to whom I cast them? NON SINE LACHRYMIS It was that hour when vernal Earth For the first day of April's tearful birth, Rose in the twilight from a fireless hearth, And smile at morning's mirth. Tired with old grief's self-pitying moan, A mile I had not strayed Ere my dire path grew dark with double zone While blast with sound as battle-trumpets blown, Cries like an undertone. Plumed with torn cloud, March led the way, And eager eyes, and harnessed form swathed grey Round his bruised buckler, in bright letters, lay Non sine pulvere. Wet as from weltering showers and seas, April came after him. He held a cup with saddest imageries Engraven, and round the rim, Worn with woe's lip, I spelt out words like these, All sorrow-stained and dim: Non sine lachrymis. These passed like regal spirits crowned, And then a sphere-made music slow unwound And soft as exhalations from the ground, "Man needs these two for this world's moil, To all who rise as wrestlers in life's coil, The wrestler's sand and oil." O toil in vain, without surcease! O Grief no hand may stay! Think on these words when work or woes increase : Man, made of tears and clay, Grows to full stature and God's perfect peace, Non sine pulvere Non sine lachrymis. MY BEATRICE : I WONDER Whether we shall ever be able to estimate rightly the value of unconscious influence. We meet one another we speak we laugh and exchange a few thoughts we part; but as no force is lost, some measure of mutual influence must have been exchanged. As the planet flies along its orbit, it is disturbed in its course, I suppose, by every body which comes within range of it. But the disturbance is only temporary: the planet may have swerved for a moment, but its course is unchanged. Such, I suppose, may represent the passing influences to which each of us is subject in the intercourse of life. I cannot, perhaps, measure the force of each several influence, but I know that after converse with one, I feel a sensible exhilaration : I go with a better confidence back to my work; after converse with another, I feel unable to settle down my centre of gravity has been disturbed; I am-no, not irritated, but perhaps thrown off my balance; after converse with a third, I am wholly depressed: power, alacrity of thought, hopefulness in effort, has been diminished. The subtle influences of personality make themselves felt. This is all preface to one chapter in my life. The one whose influence is in my thoughts as I write, knows little and probably cares less about the matter. Our lives |