THOREAU'S FLUTE.

We, sighing, said, "Our Pan is dead; His pipe hands mute beside the river;— Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, But Music's airy voice is fled. Spring mourns as for untimely frost; The bluebird chants a requiem; The willow-blossom waits for him;— The Genius of the wood is lost." Then from the flute, untouched by hands, There came a low, harmonious breath: "For such as he there is no death;— His life the eternal life commands; Above man's aims his nature rose: The wisdom of a just content Made one small spot a continent, And tuned to poetry Life's prose. "Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild, Swallow and aster, lake and pine, To him grew human or divine,— Fit mates for this large-hearted child. Such homage Nature ne'er forgets, And yearly on the coverlid 'Neath which her darling lieth hid Will write his name in violets. [pg 287] "To him no vain regrets belong, Whose soul, that finer instrument, Gave to the world no poor lament, But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. O lonely friend! he still will be A potent presence, though unseen,— Steadfast, sagacious, and serene: Seek not for him,—he is with thee."