A strain like his we vainly seek
    To sound above the singer’s grave,
  A voice empower’d like his to speak
    The word our aching bosoms crave.

  That word is not—­Oh! not, farewell! 
    To thee whom all thy lays restore;
  But deeply longs the heart to tell
    A love thy smile accepts no more.

J.S.

* * * * *

HYMN OF A HERMIT.

  Long the day, the task is longer;
  Earth the strong by heaven the stronger. 
  Still is call’d to rise and brighten,
    But, alas! how weak the soul;
  While its inbred phantoms frighten,
    While the past obscures the whole.

  Shadows of the wise departed,
  Be the brave, the loving-hearted;
  Deathless dead, resounding, rushing,
    From the morning-land of hope
  Come, with viewless footsteps, crushing
    Dreams that make the wing’d ones grope.

  Socrates, the keen, the truthful,
  In thy hoary wisdom youthful;
  Smiling, fear-defying spirit,
    From beside thy Grecian waves,
  Teach us Norsemen to inherit
    Thoughts whose dawn is life to graves.

  Rome’s Aurelius, thou the holy
  King of earth, in goodness lowly,
  From thy ruins by the Tiber,
    Look with tearless aspect mild,
  Till each agonizing fibre
    Like thine own is reconciled.

  Augustinus, bright and torrid,
  Isles of green in deserts horrid
  Once thy home, thy likeness ever! 
    We with sword no less divine
  Would the good and evil sever,
    In a larger world than thine.

  Soft Petrarca, sweet and subtle,
  Weaving still, with silver shuttle,
  Moony veils for human feeling—­
    Thine the radiance from above,
  Half-transfiguring, half-concealing,
    Wounds and tears of earthly love.

  Saxon rude, of thundering stammer,
  Iron heart, by sin’s dread hammer
  Ground to better dust than golden,
    May thy prophecy be true. 
  Melt the stern, the weak embolden;
    Teach what Luther never knew.

  Pale Spinosa, nursed in fable,
  Painted hopes and portent sable,
  Then an opener wisdom finding,
    Let thy round and wintry sun
  Chase the lurid vapour, blinding
    Souls that seek the Holy One.

  Thou from green Helvetia roaming,
  Meteor pale in misty gloaming,
  With a breast too fiercely burning;
    Generous, tuneful, frail Rousseau! 
  Would that all to truth returning,
    Gave, like thee, a tear to woe!

  Eye of clear and diamond sparkle,
  Where the Baltic waters darkle,
  Lonely German seer of Reason,
    Great and calm as Atlas old;
  Through our formless foggy season,
    Short thine adamantine cold.

  Shelley, born of faith and passion,
  Nobler far than gain and fashion;
  Daring eaglet arm’d with lightning,
    Firing soon thy native nest,
  Still the eternal blaze is brightening
    Ocean where thy pinions rest.