And he, let come what will of woe, Can quench the voice shall haunt his grave. "I Kossuth am: O Future, thou That clear'st the just and blott'st the vile, 66 'I was the chosen trump wherethrough TO LAMARTINE. 1848. I DID not praise thee when the crowd, They raised thee not, but rose to thee, Their fickle wreaths about thee flinging; So on some marble Phœbus the high sea Might leave his worthless sea-weed clinging, But pious hands, with reverent care, Make the pure limbs once more sublimely bare. Now thou'rt thy plain, grand self again, And actedst Freedom's noblest lyric; Nor can blame cling to thee; the snow From swinish foot-prints takes no staining, To beautify the world with dews and rain. The highest duty to mere man vouchsafed Was laid on thee,-out of wild chaos, When the roused popular ocean foamed and chafed, And vulture War from his Imaus Snuffed blood, to summon homely Peace, And show that only order is release. To carve thy fullest thought, what though Time was not granted? Aye in history, Like that Dawn's face which baffled Angelo, Left shapeless, grander for its mystery, Thy great Design shall stand, and day Flood its blind front from Orients far away. Who says thy day is o'er? Control, My heart, that bitter first emotion; While men shall reverence the steadfast soul, If France reject thee, 'tis not thine, Will be where thy white pennon flutters, No fitting metewand hath To-day For measuring spirits of thy stature,— Bard, who with some diviner art Has touched the bard's true lyre, a nation's heart Swept by thy hand, the gladdened chords, Crashed now in discords fierce by others, Gave forth one note beyond all skill of words, And chimed together, We are brothers. O poem unsurpassed! it ran All round the world, unlocking man to man. France is too poor to pay alone The service of that ample spirit; Paltry seem low dictatorship and throne, If balanced with thy simple merit. They had to thee been rust and loss; Thy aim was higher,-thou hast climbed a Cross. TO JOHN G. PALFREY. THERE are who triumph in a losing cause, Who can put on defeat, as 'twere a wreath Unwithering in the adverse popular breath, Safe from the blasting demagogue's applause; 'Tis they who stand for Freedom and God's laws. And so stands Palfrey now, as Marvell stood, Fearfully watering with his realm's best blood Cromwell's quenched bolts, that erst had cracked and flamed, Scaring, through all their depths of courtier mud, Europe's crowned bloodsuckers,-how more ashamed Ought we to be, who see Corruption's flood O utter degradation! Freedom turned And we are silent,-we who daily tread |