And Christian virtues make it more than fame. To country, youth, age, love, life—all were given; In death, she lingered between him and Heaven; Thus spake the patriot in his latest sigh, “_My duty done—I do not fear to die._” Weep not for him; but for his country, tost On Faction’s surges: “think not of the lost, But what ’tis ours to do.”[2] The hand that stayed, The pillar that upheld, in dust are laid; And Freedom’s tree of life, whose roots entwine Thy fathers’ bones—will it e’er cover thine? Root, rind and leaf a traitor tribe o’erspread; Worms sap its trunk and tempests bow its head. But the land lives not, dies not, in one man, Were he the purest lived since life began. Upon no single anchor rests our fate: Millions of breasts engird and guard the state. Yet, o’er each true heart, in the nation’s night, Will Taylor’s memory rise, a pillared light; His lofty soul will prop the patriot’s pride, His virtues animate, his wisdom guide. Faction, whose felon fury, blind and wild, Would rend our land, as Circe tore her child, In sordid cunning or insensate wrath, Scattering its quivering limbs along her path— Ev’n Faction, at his name, will cower away, And, shrieking, shrinking, shield her from the day. Then up to duty! true, as he was true; As pure, as calm, as firm to bear and do; Nerve every patriot power, knit every limb, And up to duty: but _weep not for him_! ----- [2] _Non quos amisimus, sed quantum lugere par sit cogitemus._ Cicero. * * * * * “PSYCHE LOVES ME.” BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. I have no gold, no lands, no robes of splendor, No crowd of sycophants to siege my door; But fortune in one thing at least is tender— For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more? I have no fame, nor to the height of honor Will my poor name on tireless pinions soar; Yet Fate has never drawn my hate upon her— For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more? I have no station, know no high position, And never yet the robes of office wore; Yet I can well afford to scorn ambition— For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more? I have no beauty—beauty has forsworn me, On others wasting all her charming store; Yet I lack nothing now which could adorn me— For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?