. . . . . Through the street
I hear the drummers making riot,
And I sit thinking of the feet
That followed once, and now are quiet.
. . . . . . . . . .
Have I not held them on my knee?
Did I not love to see them growing,
Three likely lads as well could be,
Handsome and brave, and not too knowing?
I sit and look into the blaze Whose nature, just like theirs, keeps climbing
Long as it lives in shining ways,
And half despise myself for rhyming.
What's talk to them, whose faith and truth
On War's red touchstone rang true metal,
Who ventured life and love and youth
For the great prize of death in battle?1
LOWELL had been asked to take up, and transfuse blood rich enough for the great period, into the ageing quarterly, the North American Review. He was so stirred, and charged with feeling, that he was moved to accept the task at the beginning of the year, but only on condition that his friend Norton should assume the more active duties of editor. But Lowell wrote a political article in almost every number, certainly during that most important year of the Presidential election.
It is remarkable that, while several of our wisest members, though voting for Lincoln as the best man who could be elected, were yet uneasy at again choosing, in that dangerous period, "a pilot who waited to ask his crew's opinion," -- Lowell, hitherto so radical, maintained that the President's conduct was right,____________________