------------------------------------------------------------------------ WHO WOULD CALL HIM BACK? ------- A LIFE-WORK finished: yet, hardly begun: A course in which courage cowardice undone: A leader of battles whose life’s setting sun Leaves no cause unwon. The scholar and statesman, dear to us all, As he sleeps his last sleep, though fateful his fall, Dreams only of peace—to life’s pain past recall— That, kindred, is all. The robe he wore with such marvelous grace, Will be fitted to shoulders made for his place: Efforts about which none could selfishness trace Shall still bless his race. Deeds he has done in humanity’s name Will outlive the marble upreared to his fame: Yet, would any one ask him, even through pain, To live life again? BELLE EYRE. BOSTON, MASS. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ HENRY W. GRADY. ------- LAMENTED Son of Georgia, Thou wert New England’s honored guest In welcome glad, but yesterday, With charming speech and banquet’s zest. In glowing life, so recently, From Plymouth Rock and Bunker’s Hill, Thy vision swept the Pilgrim’s sea,— But now in death thy heart is still. And in thine own dear native clime, Thou art at rest in early tomb, Where brightest skies expand sublime, And choicest flowers forever bloom. Thy work ere yet at zenith done, But harvests, o’er thy fertile field, Are waving in the noonday sun, Like billows, with abundant yield. Now fallen, but more glorious, In peaceful triumph grander far Than pageant kings victorious, With bleeding captives, spoils of war. O, ye bereaved, in mourning bowed, Around Atlanta’s noble dead! What woe is in your wailing land; How hallowed is the ground ye tread! A joyous home, now desolate, A circle broken, sad and lone, A vacant chair in Sable State, A husband, father, loved one gone. A widowed mother, mute with grief, Whose weeping children call in vain, Their cries and tears bring no relief, Thou can’st not meet them here again.