the widow wails, in her nameless woe, And the soldiers pace, with the sword and gun, Where the comrade sleeps, with the laureled brow. And what did the first?—that wayward soul, Clothed of sorrow, yet nude of sin, And with all hearts bowed in the strange control Of the heavenly voice of his violin. Why, it was music the way he stood, So grand was the poise of the head and so Full was the figure of majesty!—   One heard with the eyes, as a deaf man would, And with all sense brimmed to the overflow With tears of anguish and ecstasy. And what did the girl, with the great warm light Of genius sunning her eyes of blue, With her heart so pure, and her soul so white—     What, O Death, did she do to you? Through field and wood as a child she strayed, As Nature, the dear sweet mother led; While from her canvas, mirrored back, Glimmered the stream through the everglade Where the grapevine trailed from the trees to wed Its likeness of emerald, blue and black. And what did he, who, the last of these, Faced you, with never a fear, O Death? Did you hate him that he loved the breeze, And the morning dews, and the rose's breath? Did you hate him that he answered not Your hate again—but turned, instead, His only hate on his country's wrongs? Well—you possess him, dead!—but what Of the good he wrought? With laureled head He bides with us in his deeds and songs. Laureled, first, that he bravely fought, And forged a way to our flag's release; Laureled, next—for the harp he taught To wake glad songs in the days of peace—   Songs of the woodland haunts he held As close in his love as they held their bloom In their inmost bosoms of leaf and vine—   Songs that echoed, and pulsed and welled Through the town's pent streets, and the sick child's room, Pure as a shower in soft sunshine. Claim them, Death; yet their fame endures, What friend next will you rend from us In that cold, pitiless way of yours, And leave us a grief more dolorous? Speak to us!—tell us, O Dreadful Power!—     Are we to have not a lone friend left?—       Since, frozen, sodden, or green the sod,—   In every second of every hour, Some one, Death, you have left thus bereft, Half inaudibly shrieks to God. 

  

  

       IN BOHEMIA.     

   Ha! My dear! I'm back again—     Vendor of Bohemia's wares! Lordy! How it pants a man Climbing up those awful stairs! Well, I've made the dealer say Your sketch might sell, anyway! And 

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