Pass into nothingness; but will keep
A bower quiet for us and a sleep,
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”
Stoddard’s other works are a volume of poems, San Francisco, 1867; “Mashallah,” a work that produces, as no other work written in English, the Egypt of to-day. In this work his touch is as light as that of Gautier, while his eyes are as open as De Amicis; and a little volume on Molokai. At present he is the English professor at the Catholic University.
With the quoting of a little poem, “In Clover,” a poem full of his delicate touches, I close this sketch of a writer to whom I am much indebted for happy hours under Italian skies and in Adirondack camps.
“O Sun! be very slow to set;
Sweet blossoms kiss me on the mouth;
O birds! you seem a chain of jet,
O cloud! press onward to the hill,