In reading his poems of
the East, it is difficult to believe that he never saw Palestine, nor
Ceylon, nor India; and the wonder is no less when he writes of our own
wide country. Indeed, the vividness of his poems about the slaves at
St. Helena's Island and elsewhere make them among the finest of all
his local poems. One called "The Pass of the Sierra" may easily bear
the palm among much descriptive writing.
He watched over his last remaining brother during a long illness and
death, during the autumn and winter of 1882 and 1883 in Boston. The
family all left Oak Knoll and came to be with him at a hotel, whence
he could make frequent visits to his brother's bedside; but the
unwonted experience of passing several months in town, and the wearing
mission which brought him there, told seriously upon his health, and
caused well-grounded anxiety as to the result. The day after the last
services had been performed he wrote to a friend: "Indeed, it was a
great comfort to sit beside you and to feel that if another beloved
one had passed into the new life beyond sight and hearing, the warm
hearts of loved friends were beating close to my own. You do not know
how grateful it was to me. Dr. Clarke's presence and words were full
of comfort. My brother did not approve of a display of flowers, but he
loved violets, and your simple flowers were laid in his hand.... Give
my love to S., and kiss the dear child for me."
It was not, however, until 1890 that we could really feel he had left
the years of active service and of intellectual achievement as things
of the past.
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