Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye like angels appear, Radiant with ardor divine. Beacons of hope, ye appear! Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow. Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away. Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, re-inspire the brave. Order, courage, return; Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go. Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God. _HEINE’S GRAVE._ “_Henri Heine_”--’tis here! The black tombstone, the name Carved there--no more; and the smooth, Swarded alleys, the limes Touched with yellow by hot Summer, but under them still, In September’s bright afternoon, Shadow, and verdure, and cool. Trim Montmartre! the faint Murmur of Paris outside; Crisp everlasting-flowers, Yellow and black, on the graves. Half blind, palsied, in pain, Hither to come, from the streets’ Uproar, surely not loath Wast thou, Heine! to lie Quiet, to ask for closed Shutters, and darkened room, And cool drinks, and an eased Posture, and opium, no more; Hither to come, and to sleep Under the wings of Renown. Ah! not little, when pain Is most quelling, and man Easily quelled, and the fine Temper of genius so soon Thrills at each smart, is the praise, Not to have yielded to pain! No small boast, for a weak Son of mankind, to the earth Pinned by the thunder, to rear His bolt-scathed front to the stars; And, undaunted, retort ’Gainst thick-crashing, insane, Tyrannous tempests of bale, Arrowy lightnings of soul. Hark! through the alley resounds Mocking laughter! A film Creeps o’er the sunshine; a breeze Ruffles the warm afternoon, Saddens my soul with its chill. Gibing of spirits in scorn Shakes every leaf of the grove, Mars the benignant repose Of this amiable home of the dead. Bitter spirits, ye claim Heine? Alas, he is yours! Only a moment I longed Here in the quiet to snatch From such mates the outworn Poet, and steep him in calm. Only a moment! I knew Whose he was who is here Buried: I knew he was yours! Ah! I knew that I saw Here no sepulchre built In the laurelled rock, o’er the blue Naples bay, for a sweet Tender Virgil; no tomb On Ravenna sands, in the shade Of Ravenna pines, for a high Austere Dante; no grave By the Avon side, in the bright Stratford meadows, for thee, Shakspeare, loveliest of souls, Peerless in radiance, in joy! What, then, so harsh and malign, Heine! distils from thy life? Poisons the peace of thy grave?