The President appointed Professor Lowell to write the Memoir of Mr. Quincy, and Dr. Holmes that of Mr. Motley, for the Society's "Proceedings."

On motion of Mr. George B. Emerson, it was

"Voted, That the commemorative proceedings of this meeting be printed."

F.

LIST OF HIS HONORARY TITLES.

THE following list of the societies of which Mr. Motley was a member is from a memorandum in his own handwriting, dated November, 1866.

American Academy of Arts and Sciences.

American Philosophical Society, Philadelphia.
Doctor of Laws, New York University.

"Literature, New York University. Royal Society of Antiquaries, England.

Doctor of Laws, Oxford University, England.

Royal Academy of Arts and Sciences of Amsterdam.

Historical Society of Utrecht, Holland.

Historical Society of Leyden, Holland.

Doctor of Philosophy, University of Groningen.

Corresponding Member of French Institute; Academy of

Moral and Political Sciences.

Academy of Arts and Sciences of Petersburg.

Doctor of Laws, University of Leyden.

The last honorary title conferred upon him was that of Foreign Associate of the French Academy of Moral and This is the highest title the Academy

Political Sciences. can confer.

G.

POEMS BY W. W. STORY AND WILLIAM CULLEN Bryant.

I CANNOT close this Memoir more appropriately than by appending the two following poetical tributes:

IN MEMORIAM,—JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY.

BY W. W. STORY.

Farewell, dear friend! For us the grief and pain,
Who shall not see thy living face again;

For us the sad yet noble memories

Of lofty thoughts, of upward-looking eyes,

Of warm affections, of a spirit bright
With glancing fancies and a radiant light,
That, flashing, threw around all common things
Heroic halos and imaginings;

Nothing of this can fade while life shall last,
But brighten, with death's shadow o'er it cast.

For us the pain; for thee the larger life,
The higher being, freed from earthly strife;
Death hath but opened unto thee the door
Thy spirit knocked so strongly at before ;
And as a falcon from its cage set free,
Where it has pined and fluttered helplessly,
Longing to soar, and gazing at the sky

Where its strong wings their utmost flight may try,
So has thy soul, from out life's broken bars,
Sprung in a moment up beyond the stars,
Where all thy powers unfettered, unconfined,
Their native way in loftier regions find.

Ah, better thus, in one swift moment freed,
Than wounded, stricken, here to drag and bleed !

This was the fate we feared, but happy Death
Has swept thee from us, as a sudden breath

Wrings the ripe fruit from off the shaken bough, –
And ours the sorrow, thine the glory now!

How memory goes back, and lingering dwells
On the lost past, and its fond story tells !
When glad ambition fired thy radiant face,
And youth was thine, and hope, and manly grace,
And Life stood panting to begin its race;
Thine eyes their summer lightning flashing out,
Thy brow with dark locks clustering thick about,
Thy sudden laugh from lips so sensitive,
Thy proud, quick gestures, all thy face alive,
These, like a vision of the morning, rise
And brightly pass before my dreaming eyes.

And then again I see thee, when the breath

Of the great world's applause first stirred the wreath That Fame upon thy head ungrudging placed; Modest and earnest, all thy spirit braced

To noble ends, and with a half excess

As of one running in great eagerness,
And leaning forward out beyond the poise
Of coward prudence, holding but as toys

The world's great favors, when it sought to stay
Thy impulsive spirit on its ardent way.

For thee no swerving to a private end;
Stern in thy faith, that naught could break or bend,
Loving thy country, pledged to Freedom's cause,
Disdaining wrong, abhorrent of the laws
Expedience prompted with the tyrant's plea,
Wielding thy sword for Justice fearlessly,—
So brave, so true, that nothing could deter,
Nor friend, nor foe, thy ready blow for her.

Ah, noble spirit, whither hast thou fled?
What doest thou amid the unnumbered dead?
Oh, say not mid the dead, for what hast thou
Among the dead to do? No! rather now,

If Faith and Hope are not a wild deceit,
The truly living thou hast gone to meet,
The noble spirits purged by death, whose eye
O'erpeers the brief bounds of mortality;
And they behold thee rising there afar,
Serenely clear above Time's cloudy bar,
And greet thee as we greet a rising star.

IN MEMORY OF JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Sleep, Motley, with the great of ancient days, Who wrote for all the years that yet shall be. Sleep with Herodotus, whose name and praise Have reached the isles of earth's remotest sea. Sleep, while, defiant of the slow delays

Of Time, thy glorious writings speak for thee
And in the answering heart of millions raise

The generous zeal for Right and Liberty.
And should the days o'ertake us, when, at last,
The silence that—ere yet a human pen
Had traced the slenderest record of the past
Hushed the primeval languages of men
Upon our English tongue its spell shall cast,
Thy memory shall perish only then.

INDEX.