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 I’ve made a publisher
      Hear my poem, Kate, my dear.