III.

TO JAMES LORIMER GRAHAM, JR.

(With a volume of Shakespeare's Sonnets.)

WHAT can I give him, who so much hath given,
That princely heart, so over kind to me,

Who, richly guerdoned both of earth and heaven,
Holds for his friends his heritage in fee?
No costly trinket of the golden ore,
Nor precious jewel of the distant Ind:
Ay me! these are not hoarded in my store,
Who have no coffers but my grateful mind.
What gift then,-nothing? Stay, this book of song
May show my poverty and thy desert,

Steeped as it is in love, and love's sweet wrong,

Red with the blood that ran through Shakespeare's heart. Read it once more, and, fancy soaring free,

Think, if thou canst, that I am singing thee!

IV.

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

ENGLAND, if Time from out the Book of Fame
Should blot the desperate valor of thy men,
In the Crimea, an Englishwoman's name,
As sweet as ever came from poet's pen,
Would still defy him,- Florence Nightingale !
Honor to that fair girl, whose pitying heart
Led her across the sea, to ease the smart
Of soldier-wounds, and soothe the soldier's wail.
Men can be great when great occasions call:

In little duties women find their spheres, The narrow cares that cluster round the hearth; But this dear woman wipes a nation's tears, And wears the crown of womanhood for all: Happy the land that gave such goodness birth!

V.

COLONEL FREDERICK TAYLOR.

(Gettysburg, July 3, 1863.)

MANY the ways that lead to death, but few
Grandly, and one alone is glory's gate, -
Standing wherever free men dare their fate,

This thou hast passed, young soldier, storming through
The fiery darkness round it, - not too late
To know the invaders beaten from thy State,
Ah, why too soon to rout them, and pursue?
But some must fall as thou hast fallen; some
Remain to fight, and fall another day;

And some go down in peace to their long rest.
If 't were not now, it would be still to come;
And whether now, or when thy hairs were gray,

Were fittest for thee - God alone knows best.

VI.

TO JERVIS MCENTEE, ARTIST.

JERVIS, my friend, I envy you the art

Which you profess, and which possesses you,

To mimic Nature; unto her so true,

Your pictures are what she is to the heart,

The mystery of which it is a part,

That gladdens when we crush the vernal dew,

And saddens when leaves fall, and flowers are few ;

Nor quite forsakes us in the noisy mart

Whence she is banished, save in slips of sky

That swim in mist, or drip in dreary rain,

No glimpse of peaks far off, nor forests nigh,

Only dark streets, strange forms, a barren pain; Till to my wall I turn a longing eye,

When you restore me mountains, woods again!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.*

I.

A MOTHER'S PICTURE.

SHE seemed an angel to our infant eyes!
Once, when the glorifying moon revealed
Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled —
Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies
Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise
We looked to see the pinions half concealed.
The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield
Her back to me, who loved her in this wise,
And since have little known her, but have grown
To see another mother tenderly

Watch over sleeping darlings of my own:
Perchance the years have changed her; yet alone
This picture lingers: still she seems to me

The fair, young angel of my infancy.

* Since the preliminary essay on American Sonnets and Sonneteers was written, my attention has been directed to a set of sonnets, few in number, but of exquisite beauty, by Edmund C. Stedman of New York. They are to be found in his two volumes of poetry, "Poems Lyrical and Idyllic," published by Mr. Charles Scribner of New York, and "Alice of Monmouth, with Other Poems," published by Mr. Carleton of the same city. There are but four