DEMOCRACY. The generous feeling, pure and warm, Beneath thy broad, impartial eye, How fade the cords of caste and birth! Still to a stricken brother true, Whatever clime hath nurtured him As stoop'd to heal the wounded Jew The worshipper on Gerizim, By misery unrepell'd, unawed By pomp or power, thou see'st a MAN In prince or peasant-slave or lordPale priest, or swarthy artisan. Through all disguise, form, place, or name, Beneath the flaunting robes of sin, Through poverty and squalid shame, Thou lookest on the man within. On man, as man, retaining yet, Howe'er debased, and soil'd, and dim, The crown upon his forehead set The immortal gift of God to him. And there is reverence in thy look; And veil'd his perfect brightness there, 235 236 DEMOCRACY. Not from the cold and shallow fount Of vain philosophy thou art; Thrill'd, awed, by turns, the listener's heart, In holy words which cannot die, In thoughts which angels lean'd to know, That Voice's echo hath not died! Thy name and watchword o'er this land Not to these altars of a day, At Party's call, my gift I bring; But on thy olden shrine I lay The voiceless utterance of his will- His pledge to Freedom and to Truth, TO THE DEAD. BY JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. How many now are dead to me • How many are alive to me Who crumble in their graves, nor see That sickening, sinking look, which we Beyond the blue seas, far away, Most wretchedly alone, One died in prison, far away, Where stone on stone shut out the day, Dead to the world, alive to me, Though months and years have pass'd; In a lone hour, his sigh to me As then I saw him last. And one with a bright lip, and cheek, And eye, is dead to me. How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek! His lip was cold-it would not speak: His heart was dead, for it did not break: And his eye, for it did not see. Then for the living be the tomb, And for the dead the smile; 238 THE LAST READER. Engrave oblivion on the tomb Of pulseless life and deadly bloom,— THE LAST READER. BY OLIVER W. HOLMES. I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree, A tone that might have pass'd away, I keep them like a lock or leaf, They lie upon my pathway bleak, What care I though the dust is spread Or o'er them his sarcastic thread Oblivion's insect weaves; THE LAST READER. Though weeds are tangled on the stream, And therefore love I such as smile Nor deem that flattery's needless wile It may be that my scanty ore Long years have wash'd away, And when my name no more is heard, My lyre no more is known, Still let mé, like a winter's bird, In silence and alone, Fold over them the weary wing, Once flashing through the dews of spring. Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap My youth in its decline, And riot in the rosy lap Of thoughts that once were mine, And give the worm my little store, When the last reader reads no more! 239 |