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THE UNKNOWN POET'S GRAVE.
BY L. E. L.
"In the divine land which he had so yearned to tread—in the purple air in which poesy and inspiration mingled with the common breath and atmosphere of life—his restless and unworldly spirit sighed itself away: and the heart which silence and concealment had been long breaking broke at last."
THE DISOWNED.
There is no memory of his fate,
No record of his name;
A few wild songs are left behind—
But what are they to fame?
No one will gaze upon the scene,
Remembering—but there he has been.
Not his the memory that makes
A shrine of every place,
Wherever step or song of his
Had left their deathless trace;
None say "'twas here his burning line
Was dreamed—and hence is all divine."
