=_Henry T. Tuckerman._=

From his “Poems.”

=_391._= THE STATUE OF WASHINGTON.

  The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung,
    Has peopled earth with grace,
  Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,
    A bright and peerless race,
  But from its sleeping veins ne’er rose before,
    A shape of loftier name
  Than his, who, Glory’s wreath with meekness wore,
    The noblest son of fame
  Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stained;
    His gaze around is cast,
  As if the joys of Freedom, newly gained,
    Before his vision passed;
  As if a nation’s shout of love and pride
    With music filled the air,
  And his calm soul was lifted on the tide
    Of deep and grateful prayer;
  As if the crystal mirror of his life
    To fancy sweetly came,
  With scenes of patient toil and noble strife,
    Undimmed by doubt or shame;
  As if the lofty purpose of his soul
    Expression would betray—­
  The high resolve Ambition to control,
    And thrust her crown away! 
  O, it was well in marble, firm and white,
    To carve our hero’s form,
  Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight,
    Our star amid the storm;
  Whose matchless truth has made his name divine,
    And human freedom sure,
  His country great, his tomb earth’s dearest shrine,
    While man and time endure! 
  And it is well to place his image there,
    Beneath, the dome he blest;
  Let meaner spirits who its councils share,
    Revere that silent guest! 
  Let us go up with high and sacred love,
    To look on his pure brow,
  And as, with solemn grace, he points above,
    Renew the patriot’s vow!

* * * * *

=_John G. Saxe, 1816-._= (Manual, p. 523, 531.)

From “Early Rising.”

=_392._= THE BLESSING OF SLEEP.

   “God bless the man who first invented sleep!”
    So Sancho Panza said, and so say I: 
  And bless him, also, that he didn’t keep
    His great discovery to himself; nor try
  To make it—­as the lucky fellow might—­
  A close monopoly by patent-right!

* * * * *

  ’Tis beautiful to leave the world a while
    For the soft visions of the gentle night;
  And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
    To live as only in the angels’ sight,
  In Sleep’s sweet realm so cosily shut in,
  Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!

  So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. 
    I like the lad, who, when his father thought
  To clip his morning nap by hackneyed praise
    Of vagrant worm by early songster caught,
  Cried, “Served him right!—­it’s not at all surprising;
  The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!”

* * * * *

=_393._= “YE TAILYOR-MAN; A CONTEMPLATIVE BALLAD.”