III.

CONSOLATION.

Alone? Ah, no: beneath the earth’s fair crust Assemble all the beautiful and good Whose memory transfigures womanhood; And kingly men are there, the brave, the just; How sweet to mingle with that sacred dust! Standing to-night where we so oft have stood, Their fragrance fills the silent solitude— Sweet flowers of human love and hope and trust.

Where’er thou art, O sister of my soul, Treading with gleaming feet the streets of gold, Or softly mingling with the forest mold, Swift years shall bear me to the self-same goal, Our radiant heads in the same aureole, Or the same flower-roots thrill our ashes cold.

IN MEMORY OF D. G. R.

Bathed in the morning sunlight thou didst stand, The sisters nine in homage gathered round, Son of Apollo, with his laurels crowned, His lyre of lyres trembling in thy hand. The brush and chisel at thy high command Enchantment wrought, but sweeter far resounds The music of thy verse, the soulful sounds Flung from thy pen as from a magic wand.

Had all thy wondrous powers to song been given, What floods of melody had filled the air— Eros’ and Psyche’s voices mingling there. Alas! the wine is spilled, the lyre is riven, Stern Albion’s son, thy soft Italian name Lives only in the Pantheon of Fame.

IN MEMORY OF JOHN BROWN OF OSSAWATTOMIE.

INSCRIBED TO JOHN J. INGALLS.