Her every finger's every joint Ringed with some golden line, Poet whom Nature did anoint Had our wild home been thine. Yet think not so; Old England's blood Runs warm in English veins; But wafted o'er the icy flood Its better life remains. Our children know each wildwood smell, The bayberry and the fern, The man who does not know them well Is all too old to learn. Be patient! On the breathing page Still pants our hurried past; Pilgrim and soldier, saint and sage, The poet comes the last! Though still the lark-voiced matins ring The world has known so long; The wood-thrush of the West shall sing Earth's last sweet even-song! AFTER A LECTURE ON MOORE SHINE soft, ye trembling tears of light That strew the mourning skies; Hushed in the silent dews of night The harp of Erin lies. What though her thousand years have past Of poets, saints, and kings,-- Her echoes only hear the last That swept those golden strings. Fling o'er his mound, ye star-lit bowers, The balmiest wreaths ye wear, Whose breath has lent your earth-born flowers Heaven's own ambrosial air. Breathe, bird of night, thy softest tone, By shadowy grove and rill; Thy song will soothe us while we own That his was sweeter still. Stay, pitying Time, thy foot for him Who gave thee swifter wings, Nor let thine envious shadow dim The light his glory flings. If in his cheek unholy blood Burned for one youthful hour, 'T was but the flushing of the bud That blooms a milk-white flower. Take him, kind mother, to thy breast, Who loved thy smiles so well, And spread thy mantle o'er his rest Of rose and asphodel. The bark has sailed the midnight sea, The sea without a shore, That waved its parting sign to thee,-- "A health to thee, Tom Moore!" And thine, long lingering on the strand, Its bright-hued streamers furled, Was loosed by age, with trembling hand, To seek the silent world. Not silent! no, the radiant stars Still singing as they shine, Unheard through earth's imprisoning bars, Have voices sweet as thine. Wake, then, in happier realms above, The songs of bygone years, Till angels learn those airs of love That ravished mortal ears! AFTER A LECTURE ON KEATS "Purpureos spargam flores."