"
And can we smile when thou art dead?
Ah, brothers, even so!
The rose of summer will be red,
In spite of winter's snow.
Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom
Because thy song is still,
Nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom
With grief's untimely chill.
The sighing wintry winds complain,
The singing bird has flown,
--Hark! heard I not that ringing strain,
That clear celestial tone?
How poor these pallid phrases seem,
How weak this tinkling line,
As warbles through my waking dream
That angel voice of thine!
Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay;
It falters on my tongue;
For all we vainly strive to say,
Thou shouldst thyself have sung!
V
I fear that I have done injustice in my conversation and my report of it
to a most worthy and promising young man whom I should be very sorry to
injure in any way. Dr. Benjamin Franklin got hold of my account of my
visit to him, and complained that I had made too much of the expression
he used. He did not mean to say that he thought I was suffering from the
rare disease he mentioned, but only that the color reminded him of it.
It was true that he had shown me various instruments, among them one for
exploring the state of a part by means of a puncture, but he did not
propose to make use of it upon my person.
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