All cluster round thee,--seers of earliest ages, Persians, Ionians, Mizraim's learned kings, From the dim days of Shinar's hoary sages To his who weighed the planet's fluid rings. And we, for whom the northern heavens are lighted, For whom the storm has passed, the sun has smiled, Our clouds all scattered, all our stars united, We claim thee, clasp thee, like a long-lost child. Fresh from the spangled vault's o'er-arching splendor, Thy lonely pillar, thy revolving dome, In heartfelt accents, proud, rejoicing, tender, We bid thee welcome to thine earthly home! TO FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE AT A DINNER GIVEN HIM ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1885 With a bronze statuette of John of Bologna's Mercury, presented by a few friends. FIT emblem for the altar's side, And him who serves its daily need, The stay, the solace, and the guide Of mortal men, whate'er his creed! Flamen or Auspex, Priest or Bonze, He feeds the upward-climbing fire, Still teaching, like the deathless bronze, Man's noblest lesson,--to aspire. Hermes lies prone by fallen Jove, Crushed are the wheels of Krishna's car, And o'er Dodona's silent grove Streams the white, ray from Bethlehem's star. Yet snatched from Time's relentless clutch, A godlike shape, that human hands Have fired with Art's electric touch, The herald of Olympus stands. Ask not what ore the furnace knew; Love mingled with the flowing mass, And lends its own unchanging hue, Like gold in Corinth's molten brass. Take then our gift; this airy form Whose bronze our benedictions gild, The hearts of all its givers warm With love by freezing years unchilled. With eye undimmed, with strength unworn, Still toiling in your Master's field, Before you wave the growths unshorn, Their ripened harvest yet to yield. True servant of the Heavenly Sire, To you our tried affection clings, Bids you still labor, still aspire, But clasps your feet and steals their wings. TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THIS is your month, the month of "perfect days," Birds in full song and blossoms all ablaze. Nature herself your earliest welcome breathes, Spreads every leaflet, every bower inwreathes; Carpets her paths for your returning feet, Puts forth her best your coming steps to greet; And Heaven must surely find the earth in tune When Home, sweet Home, exhales the breath of June. These blessed days are waning all too fast, And June's bright visions mingling with the past;