Ill fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave
For living brows; ill fits them to receive: 
And yet, if virtue abrogate the law,
One portrait—­fact or fancy—­we may draw;
A form which Nature cast in the heroic mould
Of them who rescued liberty of old;
He, when the rising storm of party roared,
Brought his great forehead to the council board,
There, while hot heads perplexed with fears the state,
Calm as the morn the manly patriot sate;
Seemed, when at last his clarion accents broke,
As if the conscience of the country spoke. 
Not on its base Monadnoc surer stood,
Than he to common sense and common good: 
No mimic; from his breast his counsel drew,
Believed the eloquent was aye the true;
He bridged the gulf from th’ alway good and wise
To that within the vision of small eyes. 
Self-centred; when he launched the genuine word
It shook or captivated all who heard,
Ran from his mouth to mountains and the sea,
And burned in noble hearts proverb and prophecy.

1854

Why did all manly gifts in Webster fail? 
He wrote on Nature’s grandest brow, For Sale.

* * * * *

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A dull uncertain brain
“A new commandment,” said the smiling Muse
A patch of meadow upland
A queen rejoices in her peers
A ruddy drop of manly blood
A score of airy miles will smooth
A sterner errand to the silken troop
A subtle chain of countless rings
A train of gay and clouded days
Ah Fate, cannot a man
Ah, not to me those dreams belong! 
All day the waves assailed the rock
Alone in Rome.  Why, Rome is lonely too
Already blushes on thy cheek
And as the light divides the dark
And Ellen, when the graybeard years
And I behold once more
And when I am entombed in my place
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky
Around the man who seeks a noble end
Ascending thorough just degrees
Askest, ‘How long thou shalt stay?’
As sings the pine-tree in the wind
As sunbeams stream through liberal space
As the drop feeds its fated flower
Atom from atom yawns as far

Be of good cheer, brave spirit; steadfastly
Because I was content with these poor fields
Bethink, poor heart, what bitter kind of jest
Blooms the laurel which belongs
Boon Nature yields each day a brag which we now first behold
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint
Burly, dozing humble-bee
But God said
But if thou do thy best
But Nature whistled with all her winds
But never yet the man was found
But over all his crowning grace
By fate, not option, frugal Nature gave
By the rude bridge that arched the flood
By thoughts I lead

Can rules or tutors educate
Cast the bantling on the rocks
Coin the day dawn into lines