Whom in our party we bring?

Whom we have left in the snow?

Sadly we answer: We bring

Only ourselves! we lost

Sight of the rest in the storm.
Hardly ourselves we fought through,
Stripp'd, without friends, as we are.
Friends, companions, and train,
The avalanche swept from our side.

But thou would'st not alone
Be saved, my father! alone
Conquer and come to thy goal,
Leaving the rest in the wild.
We were weary, and we
Fearful, and we in our march

Fain to drop down and to die.
Still thou turnedst, and still

Beckonedst the trembler, and still

Gavest the weary thy hand.

If, in the paths of the world,

Stones might have wounded thy feet,
Toil or dejection have tried
Thy spirit, of that we saw
Nothing to us thou wast still
Cheerful, and helpful, and firm!
Therefore to thee it was given
Many to save with thyself;
And, at the end of thy day,
O faithful shepherd! to come,
Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.

レ

And through thee I believe

In the noble and great who are gone;
Pure souls honour'd and blest

By former ages, who else—
Such, so soulless, so poor,

Is the race of men whom I see-
Seem'd but a dream of the heart,
Seem'd but a cry of desire.

Yes! I believe that there lived
Others like thee in the past,
Not like the men of the crowd
Who all round me to-day

Bluster or cringe, and make life

Hideous, and arid, and vile;

But souls temper'd with fire,

Fervent, heroic, and good,

Helpers and friends of mankind.

Servants of God !-or sons

Shall I not call you? because
Not as servants ye knew
Your Father's innermost mind,
His, who unwillingly sees

One of his little ones lost-
Yours is the praise, if mankind
Hath not as yet in its march
Fainted, and fallen, and died!

See! In the rocks of the world
Marches the host of mankind,

A feeble, wavering line.

Where are they tending ?-A God
Marshall'd them, gave them their goal. \15
Ah, but the way is so long!

Years they have been in the wild!
Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks,
Rising all round, overawe;

Factions divide them, their host
Threatens to break, to dissolve.
—Ah, keep, keep them combined!
Else, of the myriads who fill

That army, not one shall arrive;
Sole they shall stray; in the rocks
Stagger for ever in vain,

Die one by one in the waste.

Then, in such hour of need
Of your fainting, dispirited race,
Ye, like angels, appear,

Radiant with ardour divine!
Beacons of hope, ye appear!

Languor is not in your heart,
Weakness is not in your word,
Weariness not on your brow.

Ye alight in our van! at your voice,
Panic, despair, flee away.

Ye move through the ranks, recall
The stragglers, refresh the outworn,
Praise, re-inspire the brave!

Order, courage, return.

Eyes rekindling, and prayers,

200

That black tombstone, the name

Carved there no more! and the smooth,

Swarded alleys, the limes

Touch'd with yellow by hot
Summer, but under them still,
In September's bright afternoon,
Shadow, and verdure, and cool.
Trim Montmartre ! the faint
Murmur of Paris outside;

Crisp everlasting-flowers,

Yellow and black, on the graves.

Half blind, palsied, in pain,
Hither to come, from the streets'
Uproar, surely not loath

Wast thou, Heine !—to lie
Quiet, to ask for closed
Shutters, and darken'd room,
And cool drinks, and an eased
Posture, and opium, no more;
Hither to come, and to sleep
Under the wings of Renown.

Ah! not little, when pain
Is most quelling, and man
Easily quell'd, and the fine
Temper of genius so soon
Thrills at each smart, is the praise,

Not to have yielded to pain!

No small boast, for a weak

Son of mankind, to the earth
Pinn'd by the thunder, to rear
His bolt-scathed front to the stars;
And, undaunted, retort

'Gainst thick-crashing, insane,
Tyrannous tempests of bale,

Arrowy lightnings of soul.

Hark! through the alley resounds

Mocking laughter! A film

Creeps o'er the sunshine; a breeze

Ruffles the warm afternoon,

Saddens my soul with its chill.

Gibing of spirits in scorn

Shakes every leaf of the grove,

Mars the benignant repose

Of this amiable home of the dead.

Bitter spirits, ye claim

Heine? Alas, he is yours!

Only a moment I long'd

Here in the quiet to snatch

From such mates the outworn
Poet, and steep him in calm.
Only a moment! I knew

Whose he was who is here

Buried I knew he was yours!

Ah, I knew that I saw

Here no sepulchre built

In the laurell'd rock, o'er the blue

Naples bay, for a sweet

Tender Virgil! no tomb

On Ravenna sands, in the shade

Of Ravenna pines, for a high