Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! * * * * * _The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above; Do thou, as best thou may'st, thy duty do: Amid the things allow'd thee live and love, Some day thou shalt it view._ ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. LXXXIII. SONNET. PRESIDENT WILSON.--1816- Great things were ne'er begotten in an hour; Ephemerons in birth, are such in life; And he who dareth, in the noble strife Of intellects, to cope for real power,-- Such as God giveth as His rarest dower Of mastery, to the few with greatness rife,-- Must, ere the morning mists have ceased to lower Till the long shadows of the night arrive, Stand in the arena. Laurels that are won, Pluck'd from green boughs, soon wither; those that last Are gather'd patiently, when sultry noon And summer's fiery glare in vain are past. Life is the hour of labor; on Earth's breast Serene and undisturb'd shall be thy rest. LXXXIV. OUR IDEAL. PRESIDENT WILSON. Did ever on painter's canvas live The power of his fancy's dream? Did ever poet's pen achieve Fruition of his theme? Did marble ever take the life That the sculptor's soul conceiv'd? Or ambition win in passion's strife What its glowing hopes believ'd? Did ever racer's eager feet Rest as he reach'd the goal, Finding the prize achiev'd was meet To satisfy his soul? LXXXV. FROM THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. BENJAMIN JOWETT.--1817- _From_ THE DIALOGUES OF PLATO.