By this white wandering waste of sea,
Far north, I hear

One face shall never turn to me
As once this year:

Shall never smile and turn and rest

On mine as there,

Nor one most sacred hand be pressed
Upon my hair.

I came as one whose thoughts half linger,
Half run before;

The youngest to the eldest singer
That England bore.

I found him whom I shall not find
Till all grief end,

In holiest age our mightiest mind,
Father and friend.

But thou, if anything endure,
If hope there be,

O spirit that man's life left pure,
Man's death set free,

Not with disdain of days that were
Look earthward now;

Let dreams revive the reverend hair,
The imperial brow;

Come back in sleep, for in the life

Where thou art not

We find none like thee. Time and strife And the world's lot

Move thee no more; but love at least

And reverent heart

May move thee, royal and released
Soul, as thou art.

The Sword of Robert Lee

And thou, his Florence, to thy trust
Receive and keep,

Keep safe his dedicated dust,
His sacred sleep.

So shall thy lovers, come from far,

Mix with thy name

As morning-star with evening-star

His faultless fame.

3393

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE
[1807-1870]

FORTH from its scabbard, pure and bright
Flashed the sword of Lee!

Far in the front of the deadly fight,

High o'er the brave in the cause of Right,
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon bright,
Led us to Victory.

Out of its scabbard, where, full long,

It slumbered peacefully,

Roused from its rest by the battle's song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong,
Gleamed the sword of Lee.

Forth from its scabbard, high in air
Beneath Virginia's sky-

And they who saw it gleaming there,

And knew who bore it, knelt to swear

That where that sword led they would dare
To follow-and to die.

Out of its scabbard! Never hand
Waved sword from stain as free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand,
Nor cause a chief like Lee!

Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed
That sword might victor be;

And when our triumph was delayed,

And many a heart grew sore afraid,

We still hoped on while gleamed the blade
Of noble Robert Lee.

Forth from its scabbard all in vain
Bright flashed the sword of Lee;
'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain,

Proudly and peacefully.

Abram J. Ryan [1839-1888]

ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET, A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC

[1701-1782]

CONDEMNED to Hope's delusive mine,

As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts or slow decline
Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting nature called for aid,

And hovering death prepared the blow,

His vigorous remedy displayed

The power of art without the show.

"O Captain! My Captain!"

In Misery's darkest cavern known,

His useful care was ever nigh,

Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan,
And lonely Want retired to die.

No summons mocked by chill delay,
No petty gain disdained by pride;
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walked their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found
The single talent well employed.

The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

His frame was firm-his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no fiery throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay

Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.

3395

Samuel Johnson [1709-1784]

"O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!"

[ABRAHAM LINCOLN, 1809-1865]

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is

won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths-for you the shores
a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and

done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman [1819-1892]

"WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD

BLOOMED"

I

WHEN lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed,

And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night,

I mourned, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

II

O powerful western fallen star!

O shades of night-O moody, tearful night!

O great star disappeared-O the black murk that hides the

star!