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In him who condescends to victory
u are go i behold
foreseeing + blame,
THE LOST LEADER 1
Robert Browning was born in Camberwell, London, land, May 7, 1812, and died in Venice, Italy, Decemb 1889.
TUST for a handful of silver he left us; J Just for a riband to stick in his coat — Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote. They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 1 Wordsworth.
So much was theirs who so little allowed.
We shall march prospering - not through his pres
ence; Songs may inspirit us — not from his lyre; Deeds will be done — while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then — record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devils' triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins; let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight, Never glad, confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gal
lantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the throne !
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
William Cullen Bryant was born in Cummington, Mass., November 3, 1794, and died in New York City, June 12, 1878.
To him who in the love of Nature holds
1 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart — Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good — Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between — The venerable woods — rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
So live, that when thy summons comes to join