THE GRAY CHIEF.

FOR THE MEETING OF THE MASSACHUSETTS

MEDICAL SOCIETY, 1859.

IS sweet to fight our battles o'er,
And crown with honest praise

The gray old chief, who strikes no more
The blow of better days.

Before the true and trusted sage

With willing hearts we bend,

When years have touched with hallowing age Our Master, Guide, and Friend.

For all his manhood's labor past,
For love and faith long tried,
His age is honored to the last,

Though strength and will have died.

But when, untamed by toil and strife,
Full in our front he stands,
The torch of light, the shield of life,
Still lifted in his hands,

No temple, though its walls resound
With bursts of ringing cheers,

Can hold the honors that surround

His manhood's twice-told years!

THE LAST LOOK.

B

W. W. SWAIN.

EHOLD - not him we knew!

This was the prison which his soul looked through,

Tender, and brave, and true.

His voice no more is heard;

And his dead name that dear familiar word
Lies on our lips unstirred.

He spake with poet's tongue;

Living, for him the minstrel's lyre was strung: He shall not die unsung!

Grief tried his love, and pain;

And the long bondage of his martyr-chain

Vexed his sweet soul,

It felt life's surges break,

in vain !

As, girt with stormy seas, his island lake,
Smiling while tempests wake.

How can we sorrow more?

Grieve not for him whose heart had gone before To that untrodden shore !

Lo, through its leafy screen,

A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green,
Untrodden, half unseen!

Here let his body rest,

Where the calm shadows that his soul loved best May slide above his breast.

Smooth his uncurtained bed;
And if some natural tears are softly shed,
It is not for the dead.

Fold the green turf aright

For the long hours before the morning's light,
And say the last Good Night!

And plant a clear white stone

Close by those mounds which hold his loved, his

Here let him sleeping lie,

Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber in the sky, And Death himself shall die!

NAUSHON, September 22, 1858.

IN MEMORY OF

CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JUNIOR.

E was all sunshine; in his face

The very soul of sweetness shone; Fairest and gentlest of his race;

None like him we can call our own.

CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JR. 355

Something there was of one that died
In her fresh spring-time long ago,
Our first dear Mary, angel-eyed,

Whose smile it was a bliss to know.

Something of her whose love imparts
Such radiance to her day's decline,
We feel its twilight in our hearts

Bright as the earliest morning-shine.

Yet richer strains our eye could trace
That made our plainer mould more fair,
That curved the lip with happier grace,
That waved the soft and silken hair.

Dust unto dust! the lips are still

That only spoke to cheer and bless ; The folded hands lie white and chill Unclasped from sorrow's last caress.

Leave him in peace; he will not heed
These idle tears we vainly pour,
Give back to earth the fading weed
Of mortal shape his spirit wore.

"Shall I not weep my heartstrings torn,
My flower of love that falls half blown,
My youth uncrowned, my life forlorn,
A thorny path to walk alone?"

O Mary! one who bore thy name,

Whose Friend and Master was divine,

Sat waiting silent till He came,

Bowed down in speechless grief like thine.

"Where have ye laid him?"

"Come," they say,

Pointing to where the loved one slept; Weeping, the sister led the way,

And, seeing Mary, "Jesus wept."

He weeps with thee, with all that mourn,
And He shall wipe thy streaming eyes
Who knew all sorrows, woman-born,
Trust in his word; thy dead shall rise!
April 15, 1860.

MARTHA.

DIED JANUARY 7, 1861.

EXTON! Martha 's dead and gone;
Toll the bell toll the bell!
Her weary hands their labor cease;
Good night, poor Martha,-sleep in peace!
Toll the bell!

Sexton! Martha 's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!

For many a year has Martha said,
"I'm old and poor, - would I were dead!"
Toll the bell!

Sexton Martha 's dead and gone;
Toll the bell toll the bell!

She 'll bring no more, by day or night,
Her basket full of linen white.

Toll the bell!