Our sorrow sends its shadow round the earth. So brave, so true! A hero from his birth! The plumes of Empire moult, in mourning draped, The lightning's message by our tears is shaped. Life's vanities that blossom for an hour Heap on his funeral car their fleeting flower. Commerce forsakes her temples, blind and dim, And pours her tardy gold, to homage him. The notes of grief to age familiar grow Before the sad privations all must know; But the majestic cadence which we hear To-day, is new in either hemisphere. What crown is this, high hung and hard to reach, Whose glory so outshines our laboring speech? The crown of Honor, pure and unbetrayed; He wins the spurs who bears the knightly aid. While royal babes incipient empire hold, And, for bare promise, grasp the sceptre's gold, This man such service to his age did bring That they who knew him servant hailed him king. In poverty his infant couch was spread; His tender hands soon wrought for daily bread; But from the cradle's bound his willing feet The errand of the moment went to meet. When learning's page unfolded to his view, The quick disciple straight a teacher grew; And, when the fight of freedom stirred the land, Armed was his heart and resolute his hand. Wise in the council, stalwart in the field! Such rank supreme a workman's hut may yield. His onward steps like measured marbles show, Climbing the height where God's great flame doth glow. Ah! Rose of joy, that hid'st a thorn so sharp! Ah! Golden woof, that meet'st a severed warp! Ah! Solemn comfort, that the stars rain down! The hero's garland his, the martyr's crown! NEWPORT, Sept. 25, 1881. _Boston Globe._ HOME AT LAST. BY ROSE TERRY COOK. So long he prayed to come, Lingered so long away; Now, with the muffled beat of drum And solemn dirges, at last he hath come, Come home to stay. Yes, he has come to stay! The homesick heart is still, The hurried pulse and the aching breast Now in the lap of home shall rest; He has his will. No more of heat or chill, No frost or evil blight, The work of living a life is done, The long fight over, the victory won, He sleeps to-night. Silent is home's delight, Peaceful its tranquil cheer; Here is the cool, unbroken calm, The soft wind's breath and the fir-tree's balm, All, all are here. He and the dying year Lie in their slumber deep. Safe in the heart of home at last, Anxious slumber nor grievous past Shall stir his sleep. Woe for us to keep, For him a joy to last! Woe for the land in years to come, Wail, O trumpet! and mutter, drum! The dead comes home at last! WINSTED, CONN. _The Independent._