The dirge is sung, the ritual said,
No more the brooding organ weeps,
And, cool and green, the turf is spread
On that lone grave where BROMLEY sleeps.
Gone—in his ripe, meridian hour!
Gone—when the wave was at its crest!
And wayward Humor’s perfect flower
Is turned to darkness and to rest.
No more those honest eyes...
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.* * * * *
Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
...
“Some time afterward, it was reported to me by the city officers that they had ferreted out the paper and its editor; that his office was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary a negro boy, and his supporters a few very insignificant persons of all colors.”
—Letter of H. G. OTIS.
IN a small chamber, friendless and unseen,
Toiled o’er his types one poor,...
