New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1903-05-13
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.


of years and honors. The honors have nothing
in them Of the tinsel and mere formal pomp
which are associated with many a noted man
as his career is ended. They consist simply
of the poets wreath and tributes springing
from the hearts of a multitude of readers and
friends. Mr.. Stoddard never won worldly dis
tinction; his was the life OF the man Of letters
who rejoices in the exercise of his pen, and is
happier in it's triumphs than In anything else
that fate could beStow. He had begun life IN
an iron foundry, he had held minor offices IN
the public service, but one can only think OF
him as dedicated to the MUSES. throughout his
long life. His home was delightfully."- bookish
place, in which he and the late Mrs. Stoddard
followed an existence that might also be called
bookish if it were not for the almost romantic
atmosphere created by their tender absorption
in one another. When his wife died the house
seemed to him an empty shell; he gave his
treasures to the Authors Club, and he waited
with Impotence for the final summons.
The list of Mr.. Stoddard's publications is
long one. He had wide scope, and, If we add
to the books he brought out the various pref
aces and monographs he put to his credit and
the innumerable articles of literary criticism he
contributed to Journalism, it is plain that he
has left great mass Of prose behind him. But
it is by his poetry that he will be remembered,
and remembered for many long year. His
fame though wide, never equaIled that of
Lowell or Longfellow or Whittier. He never
comprised the sweep and power Of the Com
memoration Ode; the body of Longfelow's verse
is fuller and richer than the body Of his own;
in appealing to popular sentiment or in striking
q strenuous note he wanted the Quaker poets
peculiar equipment. Still no one Of these three
sod i'm in Of az
quisite poetry. Though his poem on Lincoln is
a fine performance, his songs give perhaps the
best measure o. his gift. The spirit In which
he wrote them and the quality they possess are
best indicated by these lines of his:
How are songs begot and bred7
How do golden measures flow?
From the heart, or from the head2
Happy Poet, let me know.
Tell me first how folded flowers
Bud and bloom in vernal bowers;
How the south wind shapes its tune,
The harper, he, Of June.
None may answer, none may know,
Winds and flowers come and go,
And the sef-same canons bind
Nature and the Poets mind.
1t is obvious from this that Mr.. Stoddard had
the inspiration Of the true lyrist, the enforced
and delicately memorable strain. He had much
else-imag ination, diction, color picturesque
ness and style. But If there is one other quail
ity Of his to which we would particularly refer
at this time, it is the quality Of deep feeling
eloquently, so beautifully. so POLITICALLY ex-
pressed in his "Adsum,'' the poem written
the death of Thackeray, in 1868. There is moth
ing finer in American poetry than that picture
Of
The man Of all his time
Who knew the most of men,
following the angel Of death
Into the night they went,
At morning. side by side.
They gained the sacred Place
Where the greatest Dead abide.
Where grand old Homer sits
In godlke state benign:
Where broods in endless thought
The awful Florentine;
Where sweet CerVantes walks,
smile on his grave face;
Where gossips quaint Montague,
The wisest Of his race;
Where Goethe locks through all
With that calm eye Of his;
Where-little seen but Light
The only Shakespeare is!
When the new Spirit came,
They asked him. drawing near
art thou become like us?"
He answered, 'I am here"
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