The Human Soul; as when, pushed off the shore, Thy mystic bark would through the darkness

sweep,

Itself the while so bright! For oft we seemed
As on some starless sea-all dark above,
All dark below-yet, onward as we drove,
To plough up light that ever round us streamed.
But he who mourns is not as one bereft
Of all he loved: thy living Truths are left.
WASHINGTON ALLSTON (1779-1843).

TO WORDSWORTH.

THERE have been poets that in verse display
The elemental forms of human passions:
Poets have been, to whom the fickle fashions
And all the willful humors of the day
Have furnished matter for a polished lay:

And many are the smooth, elaborate tribe
Who, emulous of thee, the shape describe,
And fain would every shifting hue portray
Of restless Nature. But thou, mighty Seer!

'Tis thine to celebrate the thoughts that make The life of souls, the truths for whose sweet sake We to ourselves and to our God are dear.

Of Nature's inner shrine thou art the priest, Where most she works when we perceive her least.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE (1796-1849).

MILTON.

He left the upland lawns and serene air
Wherefrom his soul her noble nurture drew,
And reared his helm among the unquiet crew
Battling beneath; the morning radiance there
Grew grim with sulphurous dust and sanguine dew;
Yet through all soilure they who marked him knew
The signs of his life's dayspring, calm and fair.
But when peace came, peace fouler far than war,
And mirth more dissonant than battle's tone,
He with a scornful sigh of his clear soul,
Back to his mountain clomb, now bleak and frore,
And with the awful night he dwelt alone,
In darkness, listening to the thunder's roll.
ERNEST MYERS (1844——).

TO THE MEMORY OF SYDNEY DOBELL.

AND thou, too, gone! one more bright soul away To swell the mighty sleepers 'neath the sod; One less to honor and to love, and say,

Who lives with thee doth live half-way to God!

My chaste-souled Sydney! thou wast carved too fine
For coarse observance of the general eye;
But who might look into thy soul's fair shrine
Saw bright gods there, and felt their presence

nigh.

Oh! if we owe warm thanks to Heaven, 'tis when
In the slow progress of the struggling years
Our touch is blessed to feel the pulse of men
Who walk in light and love above their peers
White-robed, and forward point with guiding hand,
Breathing a heaven around them where they stand.
JOHN STUART BLACKIE (1809-———).

SHAKESPEARE.

SHAKESPEARE! to such name sounding what succeeds

Fitly as silence! Falter forth the spellAct follows word, the speaker knows full well, Nor tampers with its magic more than needs. Two names there are: That which the Hebrew reads With his soul only if from lips it fell,

Echo, back thundered by earth, heaven, and hell, Would own, "Thou didst create us!" Naught impedes.

We voice the other name, man's most of might,
Awesomely, lovingly; let awe and love
Mutely await their working, leave to sight
All of the issue as - below- above —
Shakespeare's creation rises: one remove,
Though dread—this finite from that infinite.
ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889).

THOMAS CARLYLE AND GEORGE ELIOT.

Two souls diverse out of our human sight Pass, followed one with love and each with wonder:

The stormy sophist with his mouth of thunder, Clothed with loud words and mantled with the might Of darkness and magnificence of night;

And one whose eye could smite the night in sunder,

Searching if light or no light were thereunder, And found in love of loving-kindness light.

Duty divine and Thought with eyes of fire Still following Righteousness with deep desire

Shone sole and stern before her and above, Sure stars and sole to steer by; but more sweet

BAYARD, awaken not this music strong,

While round thy home the indolent sweet breeze Floats lightly as the summer breath of seas O'er which Ulysses heard the Siren's song. Dreams of low-lying isles to June belong,

And Circe holds us in her haunts of ease;
But later, when these high ancestral trees
Are sere, and such melodious languors wrong
The reddening strength of the autumnal year,
Yield to heroic words thy ear and eye;—
Intent on these broad pages thou shalt hear
The trumpets' blare, the Argive battle-cry,
And see Achilles hurl his hurtling spear,

And mark the Trojan arrows make reply!
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN (1833-