re records of the thermometer.
Evidently a new one had come from London. But in October is a short and
significant record:

"19. Bille was born at 5 a clock morning."

It was inevitable--cause and effect--a striking example--most
philosophic! Had he black eyes or blue? Was he like his father or his
mother? Was he little or big? Did he weigh eight pounds or ten? Did he
live to be a man? None of these things are recorded, and we shall never
know. After this supreme event few entries appear in the diary through
the years. Life has become engrossing, important. Let us hope it was
sufficing and not full of failure and trouble; let us enjoy the pleasure
of believing so, as we well may. The clock, the cyder, the thermometer,
the little Bille: what more important matters had he or have we to
record? We part with the three, the four faint shadows, Nathaniel,
Nathan, W. S., and little Bille, with a mild regret, hoping we may meet
them, and especially "little Bille," on the other side. Till then
farewell.

CHARLES WYLLYS ELLIOTT.

TO WALT WHITMAN.

O Titan soul, ascend your starry steep
On golden stair to gods and storied men!
Ascend! nor care where thy traducers creep.
For what may well be said of prophets when
A world that's wicked comes to call them good?
Ascend and sing! As kings of thought who stood
On stormy heights and held far lights to men,
Stand thou and shout above the tumbled roar,
Lest brave ships drive and break against the shore.

What though thy sounding song be roughly set?
Parnassus' self is rough! Give thou the thought,
The golden ore, the gems that few forget;
In time the tinsel jewel will be wrought....
Stand thou alone and fixed as destiny;
An imaged god that lifts above all hate,
Stand thou serene and satisfied with fate.
Stand thou as stands that lightning-riven tree
That lords the cloven clouds of gray Yosemite.

Yea, lone, sad soul, thy heights must be thy home.
Thou sweetest lover! love shall climb to thee,
Like incense curling some cathedral dome
From many distant vales. Yet thou shalt be,
O grand, sweet singer, to the end alone.
But murmur not. The moon, the mighty spheres,
Spin on alone through all the soundless years;
Alone man comes on earth; he lives alone;
Alone he turns to front the dark Unknown.

Then range thine upper world, nor stoop to wars.