[B] "Who this modern poet was," says Mr. Collier, "is a secret worth discovering." The wood-cut on the title of the pamphlet is an ass with a wreath of laurel round his neck. [C] Milton, _from memory_. [D] Fletcher, in the "Faithful Shepherdess." The Satyr offers to Clorin "grapes whose lusty blood Is the learned poet's good; Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown Than the _squirrels' teeth_ that crack them." [E] Fauntleroy. [F] The reader, says Mr. Patmore, need not be told that all the above items of home-news are pure fiction. TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. NOVEMBER 3, 1864. Calm priest of Nature, her maternal hand Led thee, a reverent child, To mountain-altars, by the lonely strand, And through the forest wild. Haunting her temple, filled with love and awe, To thy responsive youth The harmonies of her benignant law Revealed consoling truth. Thenceforth, when toiling in the grasp of Care Amid the eager throng, A votive seer, her greetings thou didst bear, Her oracles prolong. The vagrant winds and the far heaving main Breathed in thy chastened rhyme, Their latent music to the soul again, Above the din of time. The seasons, at thy call, renewed the spell That thrilled our better years, The primal wonder o'er our spirits fell, And woke the fount of tears. And Faith's monition, like an organ's strain, Followed the sea-bird's flight, The river's bounteous flow, the ripening grain, And stars' unfathomed light. In the dank woods and where the meadows gleam, The lowliest flower that smiled To wisdom's vigil or to fancy's dream Thy gentle thought beguiled. They win fond glances in the prairie's sweep, And where the moss-clumps lie, A welcome find when through the mould they creep, A requiem when they die. Unstained thy song with passion's fitful hues Or pleasure's reckless breath, For Nature's beauty to thy virgin muse Was solemnized by death. O'er life's majestic realm and dread repose, Entranced with holy calm, From the rapt soul of boyhood then uprose The memorable psalm. And roaming lone beneath the woodland shades, Thy meditative prayer In the umbrageous aisles and choral glades We murmur unaware; Or track the ages with prophetic cheer, Lured by thy chant sublime, Till bigotry and kingcraft disappear In Freedom's chosen clime,-- While on her ramparts with intrepid mien, O'er faction's angry sea, Thy voice proclaims, undaunted and serene, The watchwords of the free. Not in vague tones or tricks of verbal art The plaint and paean rung: Thine the clear utterance of an earnest heart, The limpid Saxon tongue.