As Linnaeus wrote his name in flowers,
Thus, Artist, shall it ever be
That lily brows, carnation cheeks,
And rose-bud lips shall speak of thee!
As students of the stars have written
Their names upon the midnight skies,
Thus thou thy living name hast traced
On beauty's heaven, in starry eyes!

How like soft skies that bend at even
Italia's vales above,
Thy spirit's pure and tranquil heaven,
Illumed with stars of love!
Thy chosen one, no longer bound
Art's pilgrim, o'er the sea,
With Nature's self at home, hath found
His Italy in thee.

O faithful friend! O gentle wife!
I know I may not and to-day
One drop unto thy " wine of life, "
Of love, or happiness, or pride;
I know 't is only mine to lay
One rose-leaf on the mantling tide.

O, what without thy sunny face,
Lit with the day-spring from above,
Were thine abode of song and grace, —
Art's fairy realm, joy's resting-place, —
Where now a sacred trio meet,
Power, innocence, contentment sweet,
Genius and infancy and love!

Tender and pale the young moon shone, —
The time of dreams stole o'er the earth,
Stilling the greenwood's sounds of mirth,
Hushing the wild birds to repose,
Save the nightingale, who warbled on,
Leaning his breast against a rose;
'T was then from out a forest bower
Through shadows peered one wakeful flower,
Her azure robe with night-dews wet,
Watching a star through the purple even;
And the star, though shining in highest heaven,
Smiled down on the violet;
For a fairy mirror the flower held up, —

Thy life is like a fountain clear, upspringing
Beside the weary way I'm treading now;
I love to linger near, and feel it flinging
Its pure baptism on my fevered brow.

Thy gentle heart is like the couch of resting,
That welcomes home the wanderer of the deep,
To my tired spirit, weary with long breasting
The midnight waves that round about me sweep.

Thy soul is like a silver lake at even,
Emblem of power, and purity, and rest, —
Within its depths the eternal stars of heaven,
While earth's fair lilies float upon its breast.

Apollo once had leave to travel;
He sought our Yankee land,
And he lionized it through,
With his golden lyre in hand.

Once, at " a cottage near a wood, "
Which promised welcome's smile,
He thought, by general invitation,
To rusticate awhile.

One morn he woke, — he yawned, — he turned, —
Sprang up with fright and grief,
And cried, " By George! my lyre is stolen:

A classic heaven of old thy soul, —
Song, grace, and fire divine;
But the heaven of a purer faith,
That Christian heart of thine.

Thus he who walks beside thee
Hath what employ he chooses;
May worship with the Angels,
Or converse with the Muses.

O glory-wedded! to thy brow
A coronal is given,
For which, when song and Greece were young,
The very gods had striven.

O, find'st thou not that envied crown
A weary weight, and chilling?
Its lonely glory, is it not
An ice-touch, heartward thrilling?

Ah, no! e'en now a rosy light
Those vernal leaves is flushing;
O woman-hearted, love's warm buds
Are 'mid thy laurels blushing!

" Enthusiast, " " Dreamer, " — such the names
Thine age bestows on thee,
For that great nature, going forth
In world-wide sympathy;
For the vision clear, the spirit brave,
The honest heart and warm,
And the voice which swells the battle-cry
Of Freedom and Reform!

Yet, for thy fearless manliness,
When weak time-servers throng, —
Thy chivalrous defence of right,
Thy bold rebuke of wrong, —
And for the flame of liberty,
Heaven-kindled in thy breast,
Which thou hast fed like sacred fire, —
A blessing on thee rest!

Must silence rest upon thy lyre,
And will thy hand awake it never?
And must the great deeps of thy soul
Remain becalmed for ever?

O for a midnight storm of song!
The peal of arms, the blaze of glory,
Like that which once aroused a world, —
Thy Grecian hero's story!

O for a generous burst of song!
Like that which once new splendor shed
Round the " pilgrim shrine " of a poet's grave,