III. TO JAMES LORIMER GRAHAM, JR. (With a volume of Shakespeare's Sonnets.) WHAT can I give him, who so much hath given, Who, richly guerdoned both of earth and heaven, Who have no coffers but my grateful mind. Steeped as it is in love, and love's sweet wrong, Red with the blood that ran through Shakespeare's heart. Read it once more, and, fancy soaring free, Think, if thou canst, that I am singing thee! IV. FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. ENGLAND, if Time from out the Book of Fame Would still defy him, Florence Nightingale! - Honor to that fair girl, whose pitying heart Led her across the sea, to ease the smart Of soldier-wounds, and soothe the soldier's wail. Men can be great when great occasions call: In little duties women find their spheres, The narrow cares that cluster round the hearth; But this dear woman wipes a nation's tears, And wears the crown of womanhood for all: Happy the land that gave such goodness birth! V. COLONEL FREDERICK TAYLOR. (Gettysburg, July 3, 1863.) MANY the ways that lead to death, but few This thou hast passed, young soldier, storming through - not too late To know the invaders beaten from thy State, Ah, why too soon to rout them, and pursue? But some must fall as thou hast fallen; some Remain to fight, and fall another day; And some go down in peace to their long rest. Were fittest for thee - God alone knows best. VI. TO JERVIS MCENTEE, ARTIST. JERVIS, my friend, I envy you the art Which you profess, and which possesses you, To mimic Nature; unto her so true, Your pictures are what she is to the heart, The mystery of which it is a part, That gladdens when we crush the vernal dew, And saddens when leaves fall, and flowers are few; Nor quite forsakes us in the noisy mart Whence she is banished, save in slips of sky That swim in mist, or drip in dreary rain, No glimpse of peaks far off, nor forests nigh, When you restore me mountains, woods again! EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.* I. A MOTHER'S PICTURE. SHE seemed an angel to our infant eyes! Watch over sleeping darlings of my own: Perchance the years have changed her; yet alone The fair, young angel of my infancy. *Since the preliminary essay on American Sonnets and Sonneteers was written, my attention has been directed to a set of sonnets, few in number, but of exquisite beauty, by Edmund C. Stedman of New York. They are to be found in his two volumes of poetry, "Poems Lyrical and Idyllic,” published by Mr. Charles Scribner of New York, and "Alice of Monmouth, with Other Poems," published by Mr. Carleton of the same city. There are but four |