We sighing said, "Our Pan is dead; His pipe hangs mute beside the river. Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, And Music's airy voice is fled. Spring mourns as for untimely frost; The bluebird chants a requiem; The willow-blossom waits for him;-- The Genius of the wood is lost." Then from the flute, untouched by hands, There came a low, harmonious breath; "For such as he there is no death-- His life the eternal life commands; Above man's aims his nature rose, The wisdom of a just content Made one small spot a continent And tuned to poetry life's prose. "Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild, Swallow and aster, lake and pine, To him grew human or divine,-- Fit mates for this large-hearted child. Such homage Nature ne'er forgets, And yearly on the coverlid 'Neath which her darling lieth hid Will write his name in violets. "To him no vain regrets belong, Whose soul, that finer instrument, Gave to the world no poor lament, But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. O lonely friend! he still will be A potent presence, though unseen;-- Steadfast, sagacious and serene; Seek not for him--he is with thee." A visit to Sleepy Hollow suggests life, not death. Giant trees stretch their branches over marble and granite monuments, as if in benediction. "There is no death, for God is life," they seem to say. For them there is no death. Emerson lives to-day, the great philosopher; so do Thoreau, Hawthorne, Bronson Alcott, and others of that mighty company. And who shall say that Louisa Alcott is dead? She lives in the hearts of thousands, and will go on living through the love they bear her. Bronson Alcott was a true disciple of Jesus Christ. He lived the example set by his Master not alone in words and thoughts, but in deeds. He lived through and beyond misunderstanding, ridicule, poverty, to see his teachings respected, his name honored, to see the first glimmer of the new light which was beginning to break over the world, the sunrise at his own sunset. This thought is embodied in the last poem Louisa Alcott ever wrote: To my Father. On his Eighty-Sixth Birthday. Dear Pilgrim, waiting patiently, The long, long journey nearly done, Beside the sacred stream that flows Clear shining in the western sun; Look backward on the varied road Your steadfast feet have trod, From youth to age, through weal and woe, Climbing forever nearer God. Mountain and valley lie behind; The slough is crossed, the wicket passed; Doubt and despair, sorrow and sin, Giant and fiend, conquered at last. Neglect is changed to honor now, The heavy cross may be laid down; The white head wins and wears at length The prophet's, not the martyr's crown.