What can be finer than the closing passage: So live, that, when thy summons comes to join Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. A playful fancy pervades the following beautiful lines addressed to a bird, known to us by the name Bob-o-link : Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: 'Bob-o-link, bob-o-link, spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers : Chee, chee, chee." Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat ; "Bob-o-link, bob-o-link, spink, spank, spink; Chee, chee, chee." Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings— "Bob-o-link, bob-o-link, spink, spank, spink: Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here Chee, chee, chee." Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note. Pouring boasts from his little throat : "Bob-o-link, bob-o-link, spink, spank, spink: Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can— * Chee, chee, chee." * The Prairies : These are the gardens of the Desert, these For which the speech of England has no name- And my heart swells, while the dilated sight In airy undulations, far away, Lo! they stretch As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, And motionless forever. Motionless? No- they are all unchained again. The clouds The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not-ye have played Among the palms of Mexico and vines Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks That from the fountains of Sonora glide A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? * The following stanzas form part of his poem, entitled, The Battle-field : Soon rested those who fought; but thou, Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot. The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown-yet faint thou not. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, Then follows the oft-cited, magnificent verse,— Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; |