When life gives light to read its secrets by,
And deed explains renown.

So, looking backward from thy seventieth year
On service grand and free,

The pictures of thy spirit's past are clear,
And each interprets thee.

I see thee, first, on hills our Aryan sires
In time's lost morning knew,
Kindling as priest the lonely altar-fires
That from earth's darkness grew.

Then wise with secrets of Chaldæan lore,
In high Akkadian fane ;

Or pacing slow by Egypt's river-shore,
In Thothmes' glorious reign.

I hear thee, wroth with all iniquities

That Judah's kings betray'd,

Preach from Ain-Jidi's rock thy God's decrees,

Or Mamre's terebinth shade.

And, ah! most piteous vision of the past,
Drawn by thy being's law,

I see thee, martyr, in the arena cast,
Beneath the lion's paw.

Yet, afterwards, how rang thy sword upon
The Paynim helm and shield!

How shone with Godfrey, and at Askalon,
Thy white plume o'er the field.

Strange contradiction! where the sand waves spread
The boundless desert sea,

The Bedouin spearmen found their destined head, Their dark-eyed chief - in thee!

And thou wert friar in Cluny's saintly cell,

And Skald by Norway's foam,

Ere fate of poet fix'd thy soul to dwell

In this New England home.

Here art thou poet,— more than warrior, priest;

And here thy quiet years

Yield more to us than sacrifice or feast,

Or clash of swords or spears.

The faith that lifts, the courage that sustains,

These thou wert sent to teach :

Hot blood of battle, beating in thy veins,

Is turn'd to gentle speech.

Not less, but more, than others hast thou striven;
Thy victories remain :

The scars of ancient hate, long since forgiven,
Have lost their power to pain.

Apostle pure of freedom and of right,

Thou had'st thy one reward:

Thy prayers were heard, and flashed upon thy sight
The coming of the Lord!

Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender songs,
Slumbers the blade of truth;

But age's wisdom, crowning thee, prolongs
The eager hope of youth.

Another line upon thy hand I trace,

All destinies above:

Men know thee most as one that loves his race,

And bless thee with their love!

BAYARD TAYLOR.

Ah, sad are they who know not love,
But, far from passion's tears and smiles,
Drift down a moonless sea beyond

The silvery coasts of fairy isles.

And sadder they whose longing lips
Kiss empty air, and never touch
The dear warm mouth of those they love,
Waiting, wasting, suffering much.
But clear as amber, fine as musk,
Is life to those who, pilgrim-wise,
Move hand in hand from dawn to dusk,
Each morning nearer Paradise.
Oh, not for them shall angels pray!
They stand in everlasting light;
They walk in Allah's smile by day,
And slumber in his heart by night.