Talk:James Lorimer Graham Jr.

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I removed the following Memorials section entirely, as excessive and completely out of place in a neutral encyclopedia. Wikipedia articles are not memorials. See also Do not include the full text of lengthy primary sources. I leave it here pending future potential moving to Wikisource or selective use in short quotations, if appropriate. --Animalparty! (talk) 04:09, 19 October 2020 (UTC)

George Henry Boughton
"My very dear and good old friend, Jas. Lorimer Graham, was to me, as a young and struggling artist, a sort of Deputy Providence. When Providence itself seemed to be carelessly looking after what seemed to my youthful mind as "minor matters," Lorrie was not only there but all there to see that I, for one, did not become the prey of black despair for want of either moral or material light or sweetness (or coin of the realm). I remember I did not so much love him on the principle of "If he be not kind to me what care I how kind he be!" But rather that he seemed to radiate kindness and graceful good fellowship all about him. He appeared to draw to him by the rare gift of personal magnetism all of the best of human sympathy. The love of those who loved him for the love, that was the light of his life. His love was his religion, and his hate was only for one thing, meanness. Narrowness he disliked; but he could tolerate it when confused with an idea of "exclusiveness." This he merely looked on as a disease. My memories and experiences of Lorrie are so many, and varied and personally intimate, that I hesitate to parade the latter, and have no pardonable time to inflict you with the former. I may simplify by saying that when the days were darkest and most hopeless, he came like the "Little god from the clouds," and so charmingly and gracefully, and patronizingly, and as the darkey hymn says, "Jest rolled dem clouds away!" You will, I am sure, knowing him, believe me, and almost fancy you saw how he did it. Lorrie was a born practical joker, and his kindest acts partook of this light side of his nature. Sometimes the joke was not so very practical; but the kind object and outcome of it never failed to be a welcome success. I owe to Lorrie Graham some of the brightest and best memories of my life. If I went into detail, I should need more space than you could spare me. Among his books given to the Club may be his "Book of Good Fellows." In that you will see a bit of a parody by me, a faint hint of what I thought of him then. And since then you will believe me the light has not been dimmed about his memory. I am intensely glad that he has left his bookish treasures to the dear old Century Club. Lovely books were his soul's delight, and my (quite uncalled for, I'm sure) prayer is, that they may love and treasure and enjoy them for his sake, and practically forever."

Algernon Charles Swinburne

 * Epicede
 * In memory of James Lorimer Graham, Jr., who died at Florence, April 30th, 1876,
 * I.
 * Life may give for love to death
 * Little; what are life's gifts worth
 * To the dead, wrapt round with earth?
 * Yet from lips of living breath
 * Sighs or words we are fain to give.
 * All that yet, while yet we live,
 * Life may give for love to death.
 * II.
 * Dead so long before his day,
 * Passed out of the Italian sun
 * To the dark where all is done,
 * Fallen upon the verge of May;
 * Here at life's and April's end
 * How should song salute my friend
 * Dead so long before his day?
 * III.
 * Not a kindlier life or sweeter
 * Time, that lights and quenches men,
 * Now may quench or light again,
 * Mingling with the mystic metre.
 * Woven of all men's lives with his,
 * Not a cleaner note than this.
 * Not a kindlier life or sweeter.
 * IV.
 * In this heavenliest part of earth
 * He that living loved the light,
 * Light and song, may rest aright.
 * One in death, if strange in birth.
 * With the deathless dead that make
 * Life the lovelier for their sake
 * In this heavenliest part of earth.
 * V.
 * Light and song sleep at last ;
 * Struggling hands and suppliant knees
 * Get no goodlier gift than these :
 * Song that holds remembrance fast.
 * Light that lightens death, attend
 * Round their graves who have to friend
 * Light and song and sleep at last.

Bayard Taylor

 * WHEN HE DEPARTS.
 * I.
 * When he departs, whose sun-like glow
 * Has warmed our light, convivial air —
 * Whose music taught our own to flow —
 * Who gave our meetings grace so fair.
 * Should we not meet, as now, to greet
 * And pledge him in our heart of hearts;
 * To stay with wine and song his feet.
 * When he departs?
 * II.
 * When he departs, a gentle shade
 * Shall touch the mirth he loved to wake;
 * The jest shall droop, the wit shall fade.
 * The wine in dimmer sparkles break:
 * Yet hours like these shall still appease.
 * With joy remembered, memory's smarts.
 * And keep him ours, o'er lands and seas.
 * When he departs!
 * III.
 * When he departs, we love him most
 * Who wins the love that wakes regret:
 * If wine were tears, we still should toast —
 * If wine were blood, we'd pledge him yet!
 * So warm and kind, he's linked and twined
 * With all that's fondest in our hearts.
 * And firmer friends he leaves behind
 * When he departs!
 * IV
 * When he departs — yet, ah! the strain
 * But does our fervent feelings wrong:
 * Our hearts confess a tenderer pain
 * Than hovers round the lips of Song.
 * Delaying still, as he would will,
 * We'll check to-night the sigh that starts,
 * And one last cup of gladness fill
 * When he departs!

Edmund Clarence Stedman

 * AD GRAHAMUM ABEUNTEM.
 * Take, France, from whom we take so much
 * Of wisdom and of folly.
 * Take that which shall reward your clutch
 * And leave us melancholy!
 * Receive within your sunniest part.
 * Where life's ripe fruitage mellows,
 * This comrade boon of Song and Art
 * And peer of all Good Fellows.
 * Though at your envious bidding led
 * To leave us here regretful,
 * Your beauty cannot turn his head
 * Nor make his heart forgetful;
 * So, mind, we'd have you kindly treat,
 * Fair France, the lad we lend you.
 * And may he find your service sweet,
 * And may his love befriend you!
 * Our wits grow warmer for your wine.
 * But henceforth some could spare it.
 * While he's with you across the brine —
 * Not here with us to share it ;
 * See how the painters hang their heads,
 * The poets all are sorry.
 * And long to-night they'll shun their beds —
 * So loth to lose their Lorry.
 * Alack! the years will run their race,
 * And we are waxing grayer,
 * But he shall have, in every place,
 * Our benison and prayer:
 * He'll be our toast in this good land.
 * We'll be his posset yonder:
 * No seas, that loosen hand from hand,
 * Shall keep our souls asunder.
 * But how the red, red wine shall pour,
 * And how the wit shall waken.
 * When, back from sunny France, once more
 * He claims his seat forsaken!
 * The word shall flit from mouth to mouth.
 * And every one I name me
 * Shall bring, from North or East or South,
 * His "Welcome Hame to Jamie!"
 * Then Barker's handsome face will shine,
 * And Kensett's eyes will glisten,
 * And Lang shall sing our "Auld Lang Syne,"
 * And Gray the punch shall christen;
 * Venetian Cranch again shall chant
 * The fate of "Little Billee,"
 * Perennial Stansbury descant
 * Upon his latest filly;
 * And Bowles "Across the Continent"
 * Shall haste to share our glory,
 * And Barstow, ere the night be spent,
 * Shall tell his hundredth story;
 * While Mitchell from his Sabine Farm
 * Will gently glide atween us,
 * With Virgil yet beneath his arm.
 * To greet returned Maecenas;
 * And Bond shall bind again, as now.
 * Our circle-ends together.
 * And smooth his broad, judicial brow,
 * And make it sunny weather;
 * Bierstadt will leave his artist-throne
 * Among the Hudson breezes.
 * And Hunt and Thompson, famous grown,
 * Their architraves and friezes;
 * And Boker's laurelled head will loom
 * In mediaeval splendor,
 * While Taylor's muse shall hush the room.
 * And Stoddard's true and tender:
 * Methinks the draughts they'll swallow up
 * Will strain each swollen kidney.
 * While Curtis won't refuse his cup —
 * For once unlike his Sidney.
 * There's courtly Blodgett will be here
 * And Fisk will share our rations.
 * And Dodge — I hold his virtues dear
 * As though we wem't relations!
 * And, if to send a greeting back
 * To France our hearts desire,
 * Undaunted Field we shall not lack
 * Nor Field's immortal wire.
 * Even thus may Heaven keep us all,
 * Each young and elder brother.
 * Through weal and woe — whate'er befall —
 * To make this night another!
 * And should Fate clip his dull career
 * Who reads these wanton numbers,
 * Be sure his spirit's with you here
 * Altho' his body slumbers.
 * Then gently, France, receive your guest;
 * Bright be your ways before him.
 * And to these portals of the West
 * In his own time restore him.
 * Free float the ship, with no rude gales,
 * No evil sprites retarding —
 * But favoring zephyrs fill her sails,
 * With all good angels guarding!
 * Be sure his spirit's with you here
 * Altho' his body slumbers.
 * Then gently, France, receive your guest;
 * Bright be your ways before him.
 * And to these portals of the West
 * In his own time restore him.
 * Free float the ship, with no rude gales,
 * No evil sprites retarding —
 * But favoring zephyrs fill her sails,
 * With all good angels guarding!
 * With all good angels guarding!

Richard Henry Stoddard

 * WHAT can I give him, who so much hath given,—
 * That princely heart, so over kind to me,
 * Who, richly guerdoned both of earth and heaven,
 * Holds for his friends his heritage in fee?
 * No costly trinket of the golden ore, 5
 * Nor precious jewel of the distant Ind:
 * Ay me! these are not hoarded in my store,
 * Who have no coffers but my grateful mind.
 * What gift then,—nothing? Stay, this book of song
 * May show my poverty and thy desert,
 * Steeped as it is in love, and love’s sweet wrong,
 * Red with the blood that ran through Shakespeare’s heart.
 * Read it once more, and, fancy soaring free,
 * Think, if thou canst, that I am singing thee!