In their bloom;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
The last stanza is a pearl so perfect that one can not conceive it as having been made; it seems that it must have been created.—Francis H. Underwood.
It is difficult to imagine the time when any of the characteristic poems of Holmes will slumber on the shelves of antiquaries. They must be eternally new to the new generations, because they are founded in nature, constructed with art, animated by the noblest qualities of intellect and feeling—uniting the wit of Heine with the freshness of Beranger—and are finished as few poems have been finished since the odes of Horace.—Scribner’s Monthly.
The Prisoned Nautilus.
This is the ship of pearl, which poets feign,—
Sails the unshadow’d main,—
The venturous bark that flings