and thrusting his broad shoulders a little forward, as if
butting away the throng of evil deeds around him, and scattering whole
atmospheres of unwholesome cloud. Wherever he went, there went a
glance of sleepless vigilance, an unforgetting memory, a tongue that
never faltered, and an arm that never quailed. Not primarily an
administrative nor yet a military mind, he yet exerted a positive
control over the whole community around him, by sheer mental and moral
strength. He mowed down harvests of evil as in his youth he mowed the
grass, and all his hours of study were but whetting the scythe.

And for this great work it was not essential that the blade should
have a razor's edge. Grant that Parker was not also Emerson; no
matter, he was Parker. If ever a man seemed sent into the world to
find a certain position, and found it, he was that man. Occupying a
unique sphere of activity, he filled it with such a wealth of success,
that there is now no one in the nation whom it would not seem an
absurdity to nominate for his place. It takes many instruments to
complete the orchestra, but the tones of this organ the Music Hall
shall never hear again.

One feels, since he is gone, that he made his great qualities seem so
natural and inevitable, we forgot that all did not share them. We
forgot the scholar's proverbial reproach of timidity and selfishness,
in watching him. While he lived, it seemed a matter of course that the
greatest acquirements and the heartiest self-devotion should go
together. Can we keep our strength, without the tonic of his example?
How petty it now seems to ask for any fine-drawn subtilties of poet or
seer in him who gave his life to the cause of the humblest! Life
speaks the loudest. We do not ask what Luther said or wrote, but only
what he did; and the name of Theodore Parker will not only long
outlive his books, but will last far beyond the special occasions out
of which he moulded his grand career.

* * * * *

ICARUS.

I.

_Io triumphe!_ Lo, thy certain art,
My crafty sire, releases us at length!
False Minos now may knit his baffled brows,
And in the labyrinth by thee devised
His brutish horns in angry search may toss
The Minotaur,--but thou and I are free!
See where it lies, one dark spot on the breast
Of plains far-shining in the long-lost day,
Thy glory and our prison! Either hand
Crete, with her hoary mountains, olive-clad
In twinkling silver, 'twixt the