This is the generalization of all history. XI. THE TWO POEMS. THERE are two of these poems to which I will call special attention. The first is entitled, "A Word Out of the Sea." The boy, coming out of the rocked cradle, wandering over the sands and fields, up from the mystic play of shadows, out of the patches of briers and blackberries--from the memories of birds--from the thousand responses of his heart--goes back to the sea and his childhood, and sings a reminiscence. Two guests from Alabama--two birds--build their nest, and there were four light green eggs, spotted with brown, and the two birds sang for joy: "Shine! shine! shine! Pour down your warmth, great sun! While we bask, we two together. Two together! Winds blow south, or winds blow north, Day come white, or night come black, . Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time, While we two keep together." In a little while one of the birds is missed and never appeared again, and all through the summer the mate, the solitary guest, was singing of the lost: "Blow! blow! blow! Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore; I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me." And the boy that night, blending himself with the shadows, with bare feet, went down to the sea, where the white arms out in the breakers were tirelessly tossing; listening to the songs and translating the notes. And the singing bird called loud and high for the mate, wondering what the dusky spot was in the brown and yellow, seeing the mate whichever way he looked, piercing the woods and the earth with his song, hoping that the mate might hear his cry; stopping that he might not lose her answer; waiting and then crying again: "Here I am! And this gentle call is for you. Do not be deceived by the whistle of the wind; those are the shadows;" and at last crying: "O past! O happy life! O songs of joy! In the air, in the woods, over fields, Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! But my mate no more, no more with me! We two together no more." And then the 'boy, understanding the song that had awakened in his breast a thousand songs clearer and louder and more sorrowful than the birds, knowing that the cry of unsatisfied love would never again be absent from him; thinking then of the destiny of all, and asking of the sea the final word, and the sea answering, delaying not and hurrying not, spoke the low delicious word "Death!" "ever Death!" The next poem, one that will live as long as our language, entitled: "When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom'd," is on the death of Lincoln, "The sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands." One who reads this will never forget the odor of the lilac, "the lustrous western star" and "the gray-brown bird singing in the pines and cedars." In this poem the dramatic unities are perfectly preserved, the atmosphere and climate in harmony with every event.