(Home Of Edmund Quincy.)

DEDHAM, MAY 21, 1877.

I.

I christened you in happier days, before These gray forebodings on my brow were seen; You are still lovely in your new-leaved green; The brimming river soothes his grassy shore; The bridge is there; the rock with lichens hoar; And the same shadows on the water lean, Outlasting us. How many graves between That day and this! How many shadows more Darken my heart, their substance from these eyes Hidden forever! So our world is made Of life and death commingled; and the sighs Outweigh the smiles, in equal balance laid: What compensation? None, save that the All-wise So schools us to love things that cannot fade.

II.

Thank God, he saw you last in pomp of May, Ere any leaf had felt the year’s regret; Your latest image in his memory set Was fair as when your landscape’s peaceful sway Charmed dearer eyes with his to make delay On Hope’s long prospect,--as if They forget The happy, They, the unspeakable Three, whose debt, Like the hawk’s shadow, blots our brightest day: Better it is that ye should look so fair, Slopes that he loved, and ever-murmuring pines That make a music out of silent air, And bloom-heaped orchard-trees in prosperous lines; In you the heart some sweeter hints divines, And wiser, than in winter’s dull despair.

III.

Old Friend, farewell! Your kindly door again I enter, but the master’s hand in mine No more clasps welcome, and the temperate wine, That cheered our long nights, other lips must stain: All is unchanged, but I expect in vain The face alert, the manners free and fine, The seventy years borne lightly as the pine Wears its first down of snow in green disdain: Much did he, and much well; yet most of all I prized his skill in leisure and the ease Of a life flowing full without a plan; For most are idly busy; him I call Thrice fortunate who knew himself to please, Learned in those arts that make a gentleman.

IV.

Nor deem he lived unto himself alone; His was the public spirit of his sire, And in those eyes, soft with domestic fire, A quenchless light of fiercer temper shone What time about the world our shame was blown On every wind; his soul would not conspire With selfish men to soothe the mob’s desire, Veiling with garlands Moloch’s bloody stone; The high-bred instincts of a better day Ruled in his blood, when to be citizen Rang Roman yet, and a Free People’s sway Was not the exchequer of impoverished men, Nor statesmanship with loaded votes to play, Nor public office a tramps' boosing-ken.

JOSEPH WINLOCK.

DIED JUNE 11, 1875.

Shy soul and stalwart, man of patient will Through years one hair’s-breadth on our Dark to gain, Who, from the stars he studied not in vain, Had learned their secret to be strong and still, Careless of fames that earth’s tin trumpets fill; Born under Leo, broad of build and brain, While others slept, he watched in that hushed fane Of Science, only witness of his skill: Sudden as falls a shooting-star he fell, But inextinguishable his luminous trace In mind and heart of all that knew him well. Happy man’s doom! To him the Fates were known Of orbs dim hovering on the skirts of space, Unprescient, through God’s mercy, of his own!

SONNET.

TO FANNY ALEXANDER.

Unconscious as the sunshine, simply sweet And generous as that, thou dost not close Thyself in art, as life were but a rose To rumple bee-like with luxurious feet; Thy higher mind therein finds sure retreat, But not from care of common hopes and woes; Thee the dark chamber, thee the unfriended, knows, Although no babbling crowds thy praise repeat: Consummate artist, who life’s landscape bleak Hast brimmed with sun to many a clouded eye, Touched to a brighter hue the beggar’s cheek, Hung over orphaned lives a gracious sky, And traced for eyes, that else would vainly seek, Fair pictures of an angel drawing nigh!

FLORENCE, 1873.

JEFFRIES WYMAN.

DIED SEPTEMBER 4, 1874.

The wisest man could ask no more of Fate Than to be simple, modest, manly, true, Safe from the Many, honored by the Few; To count as naught in World, or Church, or State, But inwardly in secret to be great; To feel mysterious Nature ever new; To touch, if not to grasp, her endless clew, And learn by each discovery how to wait. He widened knowledge and escaped the praise; He wisely taught, because more wise to learn; He toiled for Science, not to draw men’s gaze, But for her lore of self-denial stern. That such a man could spring from our decays Fans the soul’s nobler faith until it burn.