Who shine in deeds, less brilliant, grouped in rhymes. Say, shall the Muse with faltering steps retreat, Or dare these names in rhythmic form repeat? Why not as boldly as from Homer's lips The long array, of Argive battle-ships? When o'er our graves a thousand years have past (If to such date our threatened globe shall last) These classic precincts, myriad feet have pressed, Will show on high, in beauteous garlands dressed, Those honored names that grace our later day,-- Weld, Matthews, Sever, Thayer, Austin, Gray, Sears, Phillips, Lawrence, Hemenway,--to the list Add Sanders, Sibley,--all the Muse has missed. Once more I turn to read the pictured page Bright with the promise of the coming age. Ye unborn sons of children yet unborn, Whose youthful eyes shall greet that far-off morn, Blest are those eyes that all undimmed behold The sights so longed for by the wise of old. From high-arched alcoves, through resounding halls, Clad in full robes majestic Science calls, Tireless, unsleeping, still at Nature's feet, Whate'er she utters fearless to repeat, Her lips at last from every cramp released That Israel's prophet caught from Egypt's priest. I see the statesman, firm, sagacious, bold, For life's long conflict cast in amplest mould; Not his to clamor with the senseless throng That shouts unshamed, "Our party, right or wrong," But in the patriot's never-ending fight To side with Truth, who changes wrong to right. I see the scholar; in that wondrous time Men, women, children, all can write in rhyme. These four brief lines addressed to youth inclined To idle rhyming in his notes I find: Who writes in verse that should have writ in prose Is like a traveller walking on his toes; Happy the rhymester who in time has found The heels he lifts were made to touch the ground. I see gray teachers,--on their work intent, Their lavished lives, in endless labor spent, Had closed at last in age and penury wrecked, Martyrs, not burned, but frozen in neglect, Save for the generous hands that stretched in aid Of worn-out servants left to die half paid. Ah, many a year will pass, I thought, ere we Such kindly forethought shall rejoice to see,-- Monarchs are mindful of the sacred debt That cold republics hasten to forget. I see the priest,--if such a name he bears Who without pride his sacred vestment wears; And while the symbols of his tribe I seek Thus my first impulse bids me think and speak: