With glance intuitive he saw Through all disguise of form and law, And read men like an open book; Fearless and firm, he never quailed Nor turned aside for threats, nor failed To do the thing he undertook. How wise, how brave, he was, how well He bore himself, let history tell While waves our flag o'er land and sea, No black thread in its warp or weft; He found dissevered States, he left A grateful Nation, strong and free! THE POET AND THE CHILDREN. LONGFELLOW. WITH a glory of winter sunshine Over his locks of gray, In the old historic mansion He sat on his last birthday; With his books and his pleasant pictures, And his household and his kin, While a sound as of myriads singing From far and near stole in. It came from his own fair city, From the prairie's boundless plain, From the Golden Gate of sunset, And the cedarn woods of Maine. And his heart grew warm within him, And his moistening eyes grew dim, For he knew that his country's children Were singing the songs of him, The lays of his life's glad morning, The psalms of his evening time, Whose echoes shall float forever On the winds of every clime. All their beautiful consolations, Sent forth like birds of cheer, Came flocking back to his windows, And sang in the Poet's ear. Grateful, but solemn and tender, The music rose and fell With a joy akin to sadness And a greeting like farewell. With a sense of awe he listened To the voices sweet and young; The last of earth and the first of heaven Seemed in the songs they sung. And waiting a little longer For the wonderful change to come, He heard the Summoning Angel, Who calls God's children home! And to him in a holier welcome Was the mystical meaning given Of the words of the blessed Master "Of such is the kingdom of heaven!" 1882 A WELCOME TO LOWELL Take our hands, James Russell Lowell, Our hearts are all thy own; To-day we bid thee welcome Not for ourselves alone. In the long years of thy absence Some of us have grown old, And some have passed the portals Of the Mystery untold; For the hands that cannot clasp thee, For the voices that are dumb, For each and all I bid thee A grateful welcome home! For Cedarcroft's sweet singer To the nine-fold Muses dear; For the Seer the winding Concord Paused by his door to hear; For him, our guide and Nestor, Who the march of song began, The white locks of his ninety years Bared to thy winds, Cape Ann! For him who, to the music Her pines and hemlocks played, Set the old and tender story Of the lorn Acadian maid;