We read his "Dr. Faustus," "Dido, Queen of Carthage," and "Hero and Leander," especially the last, without being wearied. He had many of the qualities of a great poet, and was in some degree worthy to precede Shakespeare. But he seems to have run to waste for want of seclusion and solitude, as if mere pause and deliberation would have added a new element of greatness to his poetry. In his unquestionably fine, heroic tone it would seem as if he had the rarest part of genius, and education could have added the rest. The "Hero and Leander" tells better for his character than the anecdotes which survive. I fain would stretch me by the highway-side, To thaw and trickle with the melting snow, That mingled soul and body with the tide I too might through the pores of Nature flow,[505] Might help to forward the new spring along, If it were mine to choose my toil or day, Scouring the roads with yonder sluice-way throng, And so work out my tax on _Her_ highway. * * * * * Yet let us thank the purblind race Who still have thought it good With lasting stone to mark the place Where braver men have stood. In Concord, town of quiet name And quiet fame as well, ... * * * * * I've seen ye, sisters, on the mountain-side, When your green mantles fluttered in the wind; I've seen your footprints on the lake's smooth shore, Lesser than man's, a more ethereal trace; I have heard of ye as some far-famed race, Daughters of gods, whom I should one day meet, Or mothers, I might say, of all our race. I reverence your natures, so like mine Yet strangely different, like but still unlike. Thou only stranger that hast crossed my path, Accept my hospitality; let me hear The message which thou bring'st. Made different from me, Perchance thou'rt made to be The creature of a different destiny. I know not who ye are that meekly stand Thus side by side with man in every land. When did ye form alliance with our race, Ye children of the moon, who in mild nights Vaulted upon the hills and sought this earth? Reveal that which I fear ye cannot tell, Wherein ye are not I, wherein ye dwell Where I can never come. What boots it that I do regard ye so? Does it make suns to shine or crops to grow? What boots [it] that I never should forget That I have sisters sitting for me yet? And what are sisters? The robust man, who can so stoutly strive, In this bleak world is hardly kept alive. And who is it protects _ye_, smooths _your_ way?