All over him in glory. Yet he stood In that light lonely, as in the old dark, Lonely, but looking to that light for life. Spring-pinioned Hope impetuously flew, And saw, through the deep Future shedding balm, His fame a tree in flower. If that were all? If in his vision of America He saw but Christopher made famous? Look! Not for himself; but for that martyr, Thought, Which struggles fainting in a foolish world, To ope a gate to wisdom, his heart swelled When his fixed eye beheld his soul’s belief Fulfilled in Western twilight. Thou my land! Shalt thunder to the ages evermore That dreams and hopes are holy. Thou shalt still The croaking voice of souls that shake at dawn, Loving the dimness of their own decay,— The lone desire, entreaty and despair, The wasting weariness that breeds disgust, All woes but Doubt that, wasp-like, stings Hope back, There are ye justified. And never Time Goldening this page can slip its moral too: And never Thought, loving this sweet success, But still shall love its own wild dreams the more. And still shall brighter gild all skiey peaks Of noble daring, with this perfect day. Regard your leisure with my monument, My Genoese, for centuries to be Will yet retain Its reason as to day. There, where my hope was builded, stands my Fame, The youngest children of the youngest race. The wide worlds heritors, arch-heirs of Time, Pronounce my name with reverence, and call Your sometime outcast, Father. Be it so. Andrea’s palace claims repairs perhaps, The sculptured letters must be cut anew, That on the crumbling girdle of his house Proclaim him Principe. That be your task, And pare your miserable marble, me. FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. "Dickon," cried Mother Rigby, "a coal for my pipe!" The pipe was in the old dame’s mouth, when she said these words. She had thrust it there after filling it with tobacco, but without stooping to light it at the hearth; where, indeed, there was no appearance of a fire having been kindled, that morning. Forthwith, however, as soon as the order was given, there was an intense red glow out of the bowl of the pipe, and a whiff of smoke from Mother Rigby’s lips. Whence the coal came, and how brought thither by an invisible hand, I have never been able to discover. "Good!" quoth Mother Rigby, with a nod of her head. "Thank ye, Dickon! And now for making this scarecrow. Be within call, Dickon, in case I need you again!"