The Poets of Maine: Melville Weston Fuller ----------------------------------------------------- USGENWEB ARCHIVES NOTICE: In keeping with our policy of providing free genealogical information on the Internet, data may be freely used for personal research and by non-commercial entities as long as this message remains on all copied material. These electronic pages may not be reproduced in any format or presentation by other organizations or persons. Persons or organizations desiring to use this material for profit or any form of presentation, must obtain the written consent of the file submitter, or his legal representative and then contact the listed USGENWEB archivist with proof of this consent. Transcribed and submitted by Tina Vickery TVick65536@aol.com 12:31 09/24/1999 ----------------------------------------------------- The Poets of Maine A Collection of Specimen Poems From Over Four Hundred Verse-Makers of the Pine Tree State With Biographical Sketches Compiled by George Bancroft Griffith Portland, Maine Elwell, Pickard & Company Transcript Job Print Edward Small Binder Copyright by Elwell, Pickard & Co 1888. page 476-477 Melville Weston Fuller. A native of Augusta, and a son of the late Frederic A. Fuller, Esq., a lawyer of that city. Melville was born, Feb. 11, 1833, and prepared himself, by a course of self-educa- tion, for Bowdoin College, graduating in 1853 with distinguished honor. He began the practice of law in his native city, and was an associate editor of The Age. He was Presi- dent of the Common Council, and City Solicitor; but soon removed to Chicago. So well did he perform his duties as a man of business that, in 1861, he was elected to the State constitutional convention, and in the year following to the General Assembly. He was a member of the Democratic national convention in 1864, and in 1872 of the Baltimore Democratic convention. Mr. Fuller has cultivated literary tastes, as shown in lectures and poems before college and other societies. REMORSE I may not flee it! in the crowded street, Or in the solitude by all forgot, 'T is ever there, a visitant unmeet, Deep in my heart, the worm that dieth not. There is consolation in the thought That from her lips no chiding words were spoken, That here great soul on earth for nothing sought, Toiling for me until it chords were broken. Too late, the knowledge of that deep devotion! Too late, belief of what I should have done! Chained to my fate, to suffer the corrosion Of my worn heart until life's sands are run. Why should I weep? why raise the voice of wailing? Why name the pangs that keep me on the rack? Or prayers or tears alike were unavailing, She has gone hence! I cannot call her back. And I alone must wander here forsaken-- In crowded street or in secluded spot, From that sad dream, O never more to waken Or cease to feel the worm that dieth not. --- BACCHANALLIAN SONG. Gaily the wine in our goblets is gleaming, Bright on its surface the foam-bubbles swim; So the smiles to our joy, from each countenance beaming, Are the bubbles that dance on the cup of life's brim. O what are life's homes and its high aspirations, But wishes for things that are not what they seem? Away to the shades with such dull contemplations, Utopian visions where all is a dream-- The flag at our mast head is pleasure's own banner, And to the breeze boldly it broad folds we fling, While each stout-hearted sailor will raise the hosanna To ivy-crowned Bacchus, our jolly-souled king. Then fill up your glasses, lads, fill up your glasses, With frolicsome pleasure the moments employ, Since life is a span, each bright hour as it passes, When seized on its flight, it is ours to enjoy.