The place and cause that first aroused his might
    Still proved its power until his latest day. 
  In Freedom’s lists and for the aid of Right
    Still in the foremost rank he waged the fray;
  Wrong lived; his occupation was not gone. 
  He died in action with his armor on!

  We weep for him, but we have touched his hand,
    And felt the magic of his presence nigh,
  The current that he sent throughout the land,
    The kindling spirit of his battle-cry. 
  O’er all that holds us we shall triumph yet,
  And place our banner where his hopes were set!

  Oh, Douglass, thou hast passed beyond the shore,
    But still thy voice is ringing o’er the gale! 
  Thou ’st taught thy race how high her hopes may soar,
    And bade her seek the heights, nor faint, nor fail. 
  She will not fail, she heeds thy stirring cry,
  She knows thy guardian spirit will be nigh,
  And, rising from beneath the chast’ning rod,
  She stretches out her bleeding hands to God!

LIFE

  A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in,
  A minute to smile and an hour to weep in,
  A pint of joy to a peck of trouble,
  And never a laugh but the moans come double;
          And that is life!

  A crust and a corner that love makes precious,
  With a smile to warm and the tears to refresh us;
  And joy seems sweeter when cares come after,
  And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter;
          And that is life!

THE LESSON

  My cot was down by a cypress grove,
    And I sat by my window the whole night long,
  And heard well up from the deep dark wood
    A mocking-bird’s passionate song.

  And I thought of myself so sad and lone,
    And my life’s cold winter that knew no spring;
  Of my mind so weary and sick and wild,
    Of my heart too sad to sing.

  But e’en as I listened the mock-bird’s song,
    A thought stole into my saddened heart,
  And I said, “I can cheer some other soul
    By a carol’s simple art.”

  For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives
    Come songs that brim with joy and light,
  As out of the gloom of the cypress grove
    The mocking-bird sings at night.

  So I sang a lay for a brother’s ear
    In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart,
  And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre,
    Though mine was a feeble art.

  But at his smile I smiled in turn,
    And into my soul there came a ray: 
  In trying to soothe another’s woes
    Mine own had passed away.

THE RISING OF THE STORM

    The lake’s dark breast
    Is all unrest,
  It heaves with a sob and a sigh. 
    Like a tremulous bird,
    From its slumber stirred,
  The moon is a-tilt in the sky.