Parting Hymn.
Many ideas grow better when transplanted into another mind than in the one where they sprang up. That which was a weed in one intelligence becomes a flower in the other. A flower, on the other hand, may dwindle down to a mere weed by the same change.—The Poet at the Breakfast-table.
None wept,—none pitied;—they who knelt
At morning by the despot’s throne
At evening dashed the laureled bust
And spurned the wreaths themselves had strewn.
The Dying Seneca.
Over the hill-sides the wild knell is tolling,
From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;
As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,