And bade thy soul ride on with fiery plume,
      Thy wild song ring in ocean's yearning
        speech!

ROBERT BROWNING

  How blind the toil that burrows like the mole,
       In winding graveyard pathways under-
          ground,
    For Browning's lineage! What if men have
          found
  Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll
  Of his forbears? Did they beget his soul?
    Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned
    Through all the world,—the poets laurel-
          crowned
  With wreaths from which the autumn takes no
          toll.

  The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these:
    The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire,
      The golden globe of Shakespeare's human
          stage,
      The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage,
    The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire,
  The tragic mask of wise Euripides.

LONGFELLOW

  In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour
      and riches and confusion,
  Where there were many running to and fro, and
      shouting, and striving together,
  In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise,
      I heard the voice of one singing.

  "What are you doing there, O man, singing
      quietly amid all this tumult?
  This is the time for new inventions, mighty
      shoutings, and blowings of the trumpet."
  But he answered, "I am only shepherding my
      sheep with music."

  So he went along his chosen way, keeping his
      little flock around him;
  And he paused to listen, now and then, beside
      the antique fountains,
  Where the faces of forgotten gods were refreshed
      with musically falling waters;

  Or he sat for a while at the blacksmith's door,
     and heard the cling-clang of the anvils;
  Or he rested beneath old steeples full of bells,
     that showered their chimes upon him;
  Or he walked along the border of the sea, drink-
     ing in the long roar of the billows;

  Or he sunned himself in the pine-scented ship-
     yard, amid the tattoo of the mallets;
  Or he leaned on the rail of the bridge, letting
     his thoughts flow with the whispering river;
  He hearkened also to ancient tales, and made
     them young again with his singing.

  Then a flaming arrow of death fell on his flock,
     and pierced the heart of his dearest!
  Silent the music now, as the shepherd entered
     the mystical temple of sorrow:
  Long he tarried in darkness there: but when he
     came out he was singing.

  And I saw the faces of men and women and
      children silently turning toward him;
  The youth setting out on the journey of life, and
      the old man waiting beside the last mile-stone;
  The toiler sweating beneath his load; and the
      happy mother rocking her cradle;

  The lonely sailor on far-off seas; and the grey-
      minded scholar in his book-room;
  The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine; and
      the hunter in the forest;
  And the solitary soul hiding friendless in the
      wilderness of the city;

  Many human faces, full of care and longing, were
      drawn irresistibly toward him,
  By the charm of something known to every heart,
      yet very strange and lovely,
  And at the sound of that singing wonderfully
      all their faces were lightened.

  "Why do you listen, O you people, to this old
      and world-worn music?
  This is not for you, in the splendour of a new
      age, in the democratic triumph!
  Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, the
      brazen trumpets of your poets."

  But the people made no answer, following in
      their hearts the simpler music:
  For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothing
      could be better worth the hearing
  Than the melodies which brought sweet order
      into life's confusion.

  So the shepherd sang his way along, until he
      came unto a mountain:
  And I know not surely whether it was called
      Parnassus,
  But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heard
      the voice of one singing.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

I

BIRTHDAY VERSES

  Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days
       Have brought another Festa round to you,
  You can't refuse a loving-cup of praise
    From friends the fleeting years have bound to
        you.

  Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad
        Boy,
    Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian,
  And many more, to wish you birthday joy,
    And sunny hours, and sky caerulean!

  Your children all, they hurry to your den,
    With wreaths of honour they have won for
        you,
  To merry-make your threescore years and ten
    You, old? Why, life has just begun for you!

  There's many a reader whom your silver songs
    And crystal stories cheer in loneliness.
  What though the newer writers come in throngs?
    You're sure to keep your charm of only-ness.

  You do your work with careful, loving touch,—
    An artist to the very core of you,—
  you know the magic spell of "not-too-much":
    We read,—and wish that there was more of
        you.

  And more there is: for while we love your books
    Because their subtle skill is part of you;
  We love you better, for our friendship looks
    Behind them to the human heart of you.

November 24,1906.

II

MEMORIAL SONNET

  This is the house where little Aldrich read
       The early pages of Life's wonder-book:
    With boyish pleasure, in this ingle-nook
  He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy spread
  Bright colours on the pictures, blue and red:
    Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took
    His happy way, with searching, dreamful look
  Among the deeper things more simply said.

  Then, came his turn to write: and still the flame
    Of Fancy played through all the tales he told,
  And still he won the laurelled poet's fame
    With simple words wrought into rhymes of
         gold.
  Look, here's the face to which this house is
         frame,—
    A man too wise to let his heart grow old!

(Dedication of the Aldrich Memorial at Portsmouth, June 11, 1908.)

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

  Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch
      Of beauty or of truth,
  Rich in the