Footnotes
[653:1] See Crabbe, page [444].
CHARLES MACKAY. 1814- ——.
Cleon hath a million acres,—ne'er a one have I;
Cleon dwelleth in a palace,—in a cottage I.
Cleon and I.
But the sunshine aye shall light the sky,
As round and round we run;
And the truth shall ever come uppermost,
And justice shall be done.
Eternal Justice. Stanza 4.
Aid the dawning, tongue and pen;
Aid it, hopes of honest men!
Clear the Way.
Some love to roam o'er the dark sea's foam,
Where the shrill winds whistle free.
Some love to roam.
There 's a good time coming, boys!
A good time coming.
The Good Time coming.
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Old Tubal Cain was a man of might
In the days when earth was young.
Tubal Cain.
ELLEN STURGIS HOOPER. 1816-1841.
I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;
I woke, and found that life was Duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, poor heart, unceasingly;
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A truth and noonday light to thee.
Life a Duty.
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 1816- ——.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
Life 's but a means unto an end; that end
Beginning, mean, and end to all things,—God.
Festus. Scene, A Country Town.
Poets are all who love, who feel great truths,
And tell them; and the truth of truths is love.
Scene, Another and a Better World.
America! half-brother of the world!
With something good and bad of every land.
Scene, The Surface.
ELIZA COOK. 1817- ——.
I love it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
The Old Arm-Chair.
How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart!
Old Dobbin.
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NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 1817-1867.
At present there is no distinction among the upper ten thousand of the city.[655:1]
Necessity for a Promenade Drive.
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice
And the light of a pleasant eye.
Saturday Afternoon.
It is the month of June,
The month of leaves and roses,
When pleasant sights salute the eyes,
And pleasant scents the noses.
The Month of June.
Let us weep in our darkness, but weep not for him!
Not for him who, departing, leaves millions in tears!
Not for him who has died full of honor and years!
Not for him who ascended Fame's ladder so high
From the round at the top he has stepped to the sky.
The Death of Harrison.