Three grave professions in their sons appear, Whose words well studied all well pleased will hear Palfrey, ordained in varied walks to shine, Statesman, historian, critic, and divine; Solid and square behold majestic Shaw, A mass of wisdom and a mine of law; Warren, whose arm the doughtiest warriors fear, Asks of the startled crowd to lend its ear,-- Proud of his calling, him the world loves best, Not as the coming, but the parting guest. Look on that form,--with eye dilating scan The stately mould of nature's kingliest man! Tower-like he stands in life's unfaded prime; Ask you his name? None asks a second time He from the land his outward semblance takes, Where storm-swept mountains watch o'er slumbering lakes. See in the impress which the body wears How its imperial might the soul declares The forehead's large expansion, lofty, wide, That locks unsilvered vainly strive to hide; The lines of thought that plough the sober cheek; Lips that betray their wisdom ere they speak In tones like answers from Dodona's grove; An eye like Juno's when she frowns on Jove. I look and wonder; will he be content-- This man, this monarch, for the purple meant-- The meaner duties of his tribe to share, Clad in the garb that common mortals wear? Ah, wild Ambition, spread thy restless wings, Beneath whose plumes the hidden cestrum stings; Thou whose bold flight would leave earth's vulgar crowds, And like the eagle soar above the clouds, Must feel the pang that fallen angels know When the red lightning strikes thee from below! Less bronze, more silver, mingles in the mould Of him whom next my roving eyes behold; His, more the scholar's than the statesman's face, Proclaims him born of academic race. Weary his look, as if an aching brain Left on his brow the frozen prints of pain; His voice far-reaching, grave, sonorous, owns A shade of sadness in its plaintive tones, Yet when its breath some loftier thought inspires Glows with a heat that every bosom fires. Such Everett seems; no chance-sown wild flower knows The full-blown charms of culture's double rose,-- Alas, how soon, by death's unsparing frost, Its bloom is faded and its fragrance lost! Two voices, only two, to earth belong, Of all whose accents met the listening throng: Winthrop, alike for speech and guidance framed, On that proud day a twofold duty claimed; One other yet,--remembered or forgot,-- Forgive my silence if I name him not. Can I believe it? I, whose youthful voice Claimed a brief gamut,--notes not over choice, Stood undismayed before the solemn throng, And _propria voce_ sung that saucy song Which even in memory turns my soul aghast,-- _Felix audacia_ was the verdict cast.