The poor are crushed; the tyrants link their chain; The poet sings through narrow dungeon-grates; Man's hope lies quenched;—and, lo! with steadfast gain Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates. Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and cross No power can die that ever wrought for Truth; Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone; Thou livest in the life of all good things; What words thou spak'st for Freedom shall not die; Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings To soar where hence thy Hope could hardly fly. And often, from that other world, on this Some gleams from great souls gone before may shine, To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss, And clothe the Right with lustre more divine. Thou art not idle: in thy higher sphere And strength, to perfect what it dreamed of here For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room To life more vain than this in clayey weeds. From off the starry mountain-peak of song, What wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes, may come, Thou knowest not, nor I; but God will lead The prodigal soul from want and sorrow home, And Eden ope her gates to Adam's seed. Farewell! good man, good angel now! this hand When that day comes, O, may this hand grow cold, To face dark Slavery's encroaching blight! This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier; Let worthier hands than these thy wreath en twine; Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear,— TO THE MEMORY OF HOOD. ANOTHER star 'neath Time's horizon dropped, To gleam o'er unknown lands and seas; Another heart that beat for freedom stopped,What mournful words are these! O Love Divine, that claspest our tired earth, And lullest it upon thy heart, Thou knowest how much a gentle soul is worth To teach men what thou art! His was a spirit that to all thy poor Why ope so soon thy heaven-deep Quiet's door Freedom needs all her poets: it is they And to the wiser law of music sway Her wild imaginings. Yet thou hast called him, nor art thou unkind, O Love Divine, for 'tis thy will That gracious natures leave their love behind To work for Freedom still. Let laurelled marbles weigh on other tombs, Rustling the bannered depth of minster-glooms His epitaph shall mock the short-lived stone, He needs these few and simple lines alone "Here lies a Poet. Stranger, if to thee If thou wouldst learn how truly great was he, Go, ask it of the poor." SONNETS. I. TO A. C. L. THROUGH suffering and sorrow thou hast passed Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last: |