'Year after year will pass away and seem To me, in mine eternal agony, But as the shadows of dark summer clouds, Which I have watched so often darkening o'er The vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first, But, with still swiftness lessening on and on, Till cloud and shadow meet and mingle where The gray horizon fades into the sky, Far, far to northward. Yes, for ages yet Must I lie here upon my altar huge, A sacrifice for man.' 'A sacrifice for man.' The theme has won a high significance with time. One more passage, and we are done--a passage which rivals Shakspeare in its startling vividness, as it whispers with awful power close to our ears. All night had the prisoned god heard voices,-- 'Deeper yet The deep, low breathings of the silence grew * * * * * And then toward me came A shape as of a woman; very pale It was, and calm; its cold eyes did not move, And mine moved not, but only stared on them. Their fixed awe went through my brain like ice; A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart, And a sharp chill, as if a dank night-fog Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt. And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh, A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips Stiffening in death, close to mine ear. I thought Some doom was close upon me, and I looked And saw the red morn, through the heavy mist, Just setting, and it seemed as it were falling, Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged Into the rising surges of the pines, Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength, Sent up a murmur in the morning wind, Sad as the wail that from the populous earth All day and night to high Olympus soars, Fit incense to thy wicked throne, O Jove!' Mr. Lowell is no fine dreamer, no enthusiast in the filmy questions of some cloud-land of poetry: the sword of power is in his hand, and the stern teachings of Right and Justice ring through his heart. To such men, Destiny looks for her unfolding. Woe to them, if upon their silence, inaction or irresolution in these great days, the steadfast gaze of her high expectation falls unheeded. * * * * * RESURGAMUS. Go where the sunlight brightly falls, Through tangled grass too thick to wave; Where silence, save the cricket's calls, Reigns o'er a patriot's grave; And you shall see Faith's violets spring From whence his soul on heavenward wing Rose to the realms where heroes dwell: Heroes who for their country fell; Heroes for whom our bosoms swell; Heroes in battle slain. God of the just! they are not dead,-- Those who have erst for freedom bled;-- Their every deed has boldly said We all shall rise again.