TO W.J.R., WITH A MS.

A little common weed, a simple shell,

From the waste margent of a classic sea;

A flower that grew where some great empire fell,

Worthless themselves, are rich to Memory.

And thus these lines are precious, for the hand

That penned their music crumbles into mould;

And the hot brain that shaped them now is cold

In its own ashes, like a blackened brand.—

But where the fiery soul that wove the spell;

Weeping with trailing wings beside his tomb?

Or stretched and tortured on the racks of Hell

Dark-scowling at the ministers of doom?—

Peace! this is but a dream, there cannot be

More suffering for him in Eternity!

R.H. STODDARD