1821-341 Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, A love of right, a scorn of wrong, A kind, true heart, a spirit high, That could not fear and would not bow, And on his manly brow. Praise to the bard! his words are driven, Praise to the man! a nation stood And still, as on his funeral-day, Men stand his cold earth-couch around, With the mute homage that we pay And consecrated ground it is, The last, the hallowed home of one Who lives upon all memories, Though with the buried gone. Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, Shrines to no code or creed confined- Sages, with wisdom's garland wreathed, And lowlier names, whose humble home Is lit by fortune's dimmer star, Are there-o'er wave and mountain come, Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed Or trod the piled leaves of the West, All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, RED JACKET. OOPER, whose name is with his country's woven, First in her files, her PIONEER of mindA wanderer now in other climes, has proven His love for the young land he left behind; And throned her in the senate-hall of nations, Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven-wrought; Magnificent as his own mind's creations, And beautiful as its green world of thought: Thy name is princely-if no poet's magic Could make RED JACKET grace an English rhyme, Though some one with a genius for the tragic Hath introduced it in a pantomime Yet it is music in the language spoken Of thine own land, and on her herald-roll; As bravely fought for, and as proud a token As Cœur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. Thy garb-though Austria's bosom-star would frighten Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's? Is beauty?-Thine has with thy youth departed; Is eloquence ?-Her spell is thine that reaches The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding, Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded Who will believe? Not I-for in deceiving I cannot spare the luxury of believing That all things beautiful are what they seem; Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower; With look like patient Job's eschewing evil; That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain And in thy wrath a nursing cat-o'-mountain And underneath that face, like summer ocean's, Love for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, Pride-in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars; Hope that thy wrongs may be, by the Great Spirit, Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne! Edward Tyrrel Channing. BORN in Newport, R. I., 1790. DIED at Cambridge, Mass., 1856. LITERARY FAME. [Lectures read to the Seniors in Harvard College. 1856.] CONTEMPORARY REPUTATION. ET us now observe the impression which an author makes, to learn whether it indicates a firm hold on public favor. We do not promise him, or require for him, in the distant, tranquil future, the bustling admiration of his contemporaries; but he must have qualities that will secure men's sober love and gratitude in their homes, in their solitary walks, in their studies, in the highest and the most familiar intercourse of social life, through all time, and, to a degree, in every reading country. To be immortal as a writer is more than to have a place among the customary tenants of large libraries, to be hidden perhaps for ages ; and, when brought to light, like an embalmed corpse of the East, for the examination of the curious,-to be wondered at chiefly for having lasted so long. It is more than to have a deserved name for wisdom and genius, if these come not with a gracious as well as an awakening power. The writer, whom we presume to call immortal, must have life in the hearts, the experience and the wants of men. He must be essential to them. He must be a part of them, of their pride, their prefer VOL. V.-15 |