SUMNER.

I.DDead!But not where the flashing gunsBring in a moment’s glittering spaceDeath,—and heaven—and deathless fame—To Victory’s sons.Dead!But not where the crimson flame,Leaping fierce in a cruel grace,From the earthly clodBurns away all pitiful drossTill a martyr’s soul on fiery crossAscends to God.Whose life was martyrdomShall be spared a martyr’s deathIn winning a martyr’s crown.No struggle for restless breath;—A life laid calmly down;—Eloquent lips grown dumb;—Only for us the pain,And the agony of loss;Only for us the test;For him, the wonderful gain,For him, a longed-for rest.II.Dead!And the mother state,Mother of noble sons,Reaches her yearning arms.Give him back to her now!Cold is the kingly brow,Noblest of noble ones!He cannot serve you now;Unheeding earthly things,The royal soul, so greatTo shield from threatening harms,Has passed through a silent gateThat never outward swings.Living, the world had needOf him and his deathless name;—Living, the world had needOf him and his stainless fame;—Living, we knew her needOf him, and confessed her claim;—Dead, he is only ours!Cover his bier with flowers;Give him back to us now!III.Nay!Let Massachusetts wait!In the capitol of the greatLet the statesman lie in state.Let the house be draped in woe;Let the sentinel belowPace solemnly to and fro.All night let the tireless streetEcho the sad, slow feetOf those who come and go.All day let the voiceless streetIn silence then repeatThe name we honor so.Let the Senate chamber ringOnce more with his eloquence,The eloquence of his death!Let choicest flowers bring,Delicate and intense,Tribute of fragrant breath.For ever the gentlest thingWith strongest love will clingTo one so grandly great.Let Massachusetts wait!Honored by every land,Around him there shall standThe noblest of each state!And a nation’s tears be shedFor our Massachusetts’ dead!IV.Living, there was none so poorThat he need to hesitateLoftiest aid from him to claim;—Dead, there is not one so great,Standing now at his right hand,But may tremble so to stand;Lest the touchstone of that pureStainless soul and deathless fameProve all poor who seem so great!V.Now,To his mother where she stands,Envied by the childless lands,Bring him back with reverent hands.Lonely mother, it is wellThat your sorrowing lips should tellOnce again repentant woeFor the wound of long ago,For rebuke that hurt him so!No reproof could alienatePatriot soul from patriot state;—Grandly patient, he could wait,Cancelling reproachful past,Words that almost came too late!“You were right and we were wrong!”Strong and clear they came at last;And his sovereign spirit, greatIn forgiveness for the longSilent strain so gently borne,Hearing Massachusetts mournFor the wrong that she had doneTurned to her, her reverent son.Ere her last word met his ear,He had answered—he is here!VI.Here!At the city gates!And the long procession waitsTo bear him to his bier.No sound of muffled drumsTells that a hero comes;No volleying cannon rollThe loss of a leader’s soul;Not with the aid of theseHad he won his victories;He never loved such voice;—Let not these be our choiceTo give this pain relief;For the people’s hearts are muteWith the passion of their grief.Break not upon his peaceWith Massachusetts guns!Only a tolling bellTo the sorrowing state shall tellThat the noblest of her sons,—Highest in the world’s repute,Lowliest in the toil he gave,—Given of God this swift release,Comes at last from her to craveFor the service that he gaveThe guerdon of a grave!VII.DarkOver all,Falls the twilight like a pall.Kindle not the restless flareOf the midnight torches’ glare;Let the restful stars look down,Silent through the clear, cold air,High and pure as his renown!Pale against the evening skyBurns the banner that ye drapeWith the heavy folds of crape;And ye have no need to tieAll its fluttering crimson backWith those heavy folds of black;—For the very winds to-dayDroop with sadness, nor would careWith their crimson toy to play!VIII.He is here!Massachusetts called him back,And he answered—he is here!Let the walls be hung with black,Yet let roses richly redOn the casket of the deadBe in bright profusion spread;And all night with solemn treadLet the dusky sentinel,Guarding what he loved so well,Guarding what he held so dear,Pace beside the quiet bier!IX.O beautiful sad day!All of earthly must we layIn the silent grave away.And the very Winter, paleAt the sight of so much grief,From her harshness will relent;Stoop to brush away the snowFrom the frozen earth belowWhere the noble dead shall lie.Let no glorious dome less highThan the over-arching skyBend above that royal grave;And for living monument,Over it shall rise and waveLiving flower and living leaf.Lay your costly roses down,Civic wreath and cross and crown;These are frail!Spring shall be your sentinel;Guarding now untiring hereAll of what we held so dear,All of what we loved so well!Lay your costly roses down,Civic wreath and crown and cross;Turn away with hearts made greatBy the greatness of your loss!Spring shall wait;—To her sacred care entrustAll of what is left us here:—Dust to dust!Lay your costly roses down,Civic wreath and cross and crown;These are frail!In the dim, unwonted shade,These will fade!But when next ye come this way,Ye shall find the Spring still here;And a grave with violets set;Purple, living violet,With the tears of heaven wet.

DDead!But not where the flashing gunsBring in a moment’s glittering spaceDeath,—and heaven—and deathless fame—To Victory’s sons.Dead!But not where the crimson flame,Leaping fierce in a cruel grace,From the earthly clodBurns away all pitiful drossTill a martyr’s soul on fiery crossAscends to God.Whose life was martyrdomShall be spared a martyr’s deathIn winning a martyr’s crown.No struggle for restless breath;—A life laid calmly down;—Eloquent lips grown dumb;—Only for us the pain,And the agony of loss;Only for us the test;For him, the wonderful gain,For him, a longed-for rest.

Dead!

But not where the flashing guns

Bring in a moment’s glittering space

Death,—and heaven—and deathless fame—

To Victory’s sons.

Dead!

But not where the crimson flame,

Leaping fierce in a cruel grace,

From the earthly clod

Burns away all pitiful dross

Till a martyr’s soul on fiery cross

Ascends to God.

Whose life was martyrdom

Shall be spared a martyr’s death

In winning a martyr’s crown.

No struggle for restless breath;—

A life laid calmly down;—

Eloquent lips grown dumb;—

Only for us the pain,

And the agony of loss;

Only for us the test;

For him, the wonderful gain,

For him, a longed-for rest.

Dead!And the mother state,Mother of noble sons,Reaches her yearning arms.Give him back to her now!Cold is the kingly brow,Noblest of noble ones!He cannot serve you now;Unheeding earthly things,The royal soul, so greatTo shield from threatening harms,Has passed through a silent gateThat never outward swings.Living, the world had needOf him and his deathless name;—Living, the world had needOf him and his stainless fame;—Living, we knew her needOf him, and confessed her claim;—Dead, he is only ours!Cover his bier with flowers;Give him back to us now!

Dead!

And the mother state,

Mother of noble sons,

Reaches her yearning arms.

Give him back to her now!

Cold is the kingly brow,

Noblest of noble ones!

He cannot serve you now;

Unheeding earthly things,

The royal soul, so great

To shield from threatening harms,

Has passed through a silent gate

That never outward swings.

Living, the world had need

Of him and his deathless name;—

Living, the world had need

Of him and his stainless fame;—

Living, we knew her need

Of him, and confessed her claim;—

Dead, he is only ours!

Cover his bier with flowers;

Give him back to us now!

Nay!Let Massachusetts wait!In the capitol of the greatLet the statesman lie in state.Let the house be draped in woe;Let the sentinel belowPace solemnly to and fro.All night let the tireless streetEcho the sad, slow feetOf those who come and go.All day let the voiceless streetIn silence then repeatThe name we honor so.Let the Senate chamber ringOnce more with his eloquence,The eloquence of his death!Let choicest flowers bring,Delicate and intense,Tribute of fragrant breath.For ever the gentlest thingWith strongest love will clingTo one so grandly great.Let Massachusetts wait!Honored by every land,Around him there shall standThe noblest of each state!And a nation’s tears be shedFor our Massachusetts’ dead!

Nay!

Let Massachusetts wait!

In the capitol of the great

Let the statesman lie in state.

Let the house be draped in woe;

Let the sentinel below

Pace solemnly to and fro.

All night let the tireless street

Echo the sad, slow feet

Of those who come and go.

All day let the voiceless street

In silence then repeat

The name we honor so.

Let the Senate chamber ring

Once more with his eloquence,

The eloquence of his death!

Let choicest flowers bring,

Delicate and intense,

Tribute of fragrant breath.

For ever the gentlest thing

With strongest love will cling

To one so grandly great.

Let Massachusetts wait!

Honored by every land,

Around him there shall stand

The noblest of each state!

And a nation’s tears be shed

For our Massachusetts’ dead!

Living, there was none so poorThat he need to hesitateLoftiest aid from him to claim;—Dead, there is not one so great,Standing now at his right hand,But may tremble so to stand;Lest the touchstone of that pureStainless soul and deathless fameProve all poor who seem so great!

Living, there was none so poor

That he need to hesitate

Loftiest aid from him to claim;—

Dead, there is not one so great,

Standing now at his right hand,

But may tremble so to stand;

Lest the touchstone of that pure

Stainless soul and deathless fame

Prove all poor who seem so great!

Now,To his mother where she stands,Envied by the childless lands,Bring him back with reverent hands.Lonely mother, it is wellThat your sorrowing lips should tellOnce again repentant woeFor the wound of long ago,For rebuke that hurt him so!No reproof could alienatePatriot soul from patriot state;—Grandly patient, he could wait,Cancelling reproachful past,Words that almost came too late!“You were right and we were wrong!”Strong and clear they came at last;And his sovereign spirit, greatIn forgiveness for the longSilent strain so gently borne,Hearing Massachusetts mournFor the wrong that she had doneTurned to her, her reverent son.Ere her last word met his ear,He had answered—he is here!

Now,

To his mother where she stands,

Envied by the childless lands,

Bring him back with reverent hands.

Lonely mother, it is well

That your sorrowing lips should tell

Once again repentant woe

For the wound of long ago,

For rebuke that hurt him so!

No reproof could alienate

Patriot soul from patriot state;—

Grandly patient, he could wait,

Cancelling reproachful past,

Words that almost came too late!

“You were right and we were wrong!”

Strong and clear they came at last;

And his sovereign spirit, great

In forgiveness for the long

Silent strain so gently borne,

Hearing Massachusetts mourn

For the wrong that she had done

Turned to her, her reverent son.

Ere her last word met his ear,

He had answered—he is here!

Here!At the city gates!And the long procession waitsTo bear him to his bier.No sound of muffled drumsTells that a hero comes;No volleying cannon rollThe loss of a leader’s soul;Not with the aid of theseHad he won his victories;He never loved such voice;—Let not these be our choiceTo give this pain relief;For the people’s hearts are muteWith the passion of their grief.Break not upon his peaceWith Massachusetts guns!Only a tolling bellTo the sorrowing state shall tellThat the noblest of her sons,—Highest in the world’s repute,Lowliest in the toil he gave,—Given of God this swift release,Comes at last from her to craveFor the service that he gaveThe guerdon of a grave!

Here!

At the city gates!

And the long procession waits

To bear him to his bier.

No sound of muffled drums

Tells that a hero comes;

No volleying cannon roll

The loss of a leader’s soul;

Not with the aid of these

Had he won his victories;

He never loved such voice;—

Let not these be our choice

To give this pain relief;

For the people’s hearts are mute

With the passion of their grief.

Break not upon his peace

With Massachusetts guns!

Only a tolling bell

To the sorrowing state shall tell

That the noblest of her sons,—

Highest in the world’s repute,

Lowliest in the toil he gave,—

Given of God this swift release,

Comes at last from her to crave

For the service that he gave

The guerdon of a grave!

DarkOver all,Falls the twilight like a pall.Kindle not the restless flareOf the midnight torches’ glare;Let the restful stars look down,Silent through the clear, cold air,High and pure as his renown!Pale against the evening skyBurns the banner that ye drapeWith the heavy folds of crape;And ye have no need to tieAll its fluttering crimson backWith those heavy folds of black;—For the very winds to-dayDroop with sadness, nor would careWith their crimson toy to play!

Dark

Over all,

Falls the twilight like a pall.

Kindle not the restless flare

Of the midnight torches’ glare;

Let the restful stars look down,

Silent through the clear, cold air,

High and pure as his renown!

Pale against the evening sky

Burns the banner that ye drape

With the heavy folds of crape;

And ye have no need to tie

All its fluttering crimson back

With those heavy folds of black;—

For the very winds to-day

Droop with sadness, nor would care

With their crimson toy to play!

He is here!Massachusetts called him back,And he answered—he is here!Let the walls be hung with black,Yet let roses richly redOn the casket of the deadBe in bright profusion spread;And all night with solemn treadLet the dusky sentinel,Guarding what he loved so well,Guarding what he held so dear,Pace beside the quiet bier!

He is here!

Massachusetts called him back,

And he answered—he is here!

Let the walls be hung with black,

Yet let roses richly red

On the casket of the dead

Be in bright profusion spread;

And all night with solemn tread

Let the dusky sentinel,

Guarding what he loved so well,

Guarding what he held so dear,

Pace beside the quiet bier!

O beautiful sad day!All of earthly must we layIn the silent grave away.And the very Winter, paleAt the sight of so much grief,From her harshness will relent;Stoop to brush away the snowFrom the frozen earth belowWhere the noble dead shall lie.Let no glorious dome less highThan the over-arching skyBend above that royal grave;And for living monument,Over it shall rise and waveLiving flower and living leaf.Lay your costly roses down,Civic wreath and cross and crown;These are frail!Spring shall be your sentinel;Guarding now untiring hereAll of what we held so dear,All of what we loved so well!Lay your costly roses down,Civic wreath and crown and cross;Turn away with hearts made greatBy the greatness of your loss!Spring shall wait;—To her sacred care entrustAll of what is left us here:—Dust to dust!Lay your costly roses down,Civic wreath and cross and crown;These are frail!In the dim, unwonted shade,These will fade!But when next ye come this way,Ye shall find the Spring still here;And a grave with violets set;Purple, living violet,With the tears of heaven wet.

O beautiful sad day!

All of earthly must we lay

In the silent grave away.

And the very Winter, pale

At the sight of so much grief,

From her harshness will relent;

Stoop to brush away the snow

From the frozen earth below

Where the noble dead shall lie.

Let no glorious dome less high

Than the over-arching sky

Bend above that royal grave;

And for living monument,

Over it shall rise and wave

Living flower and living leaf.

Lay your costly roses down,

Civic wreath and cross and crown;

These are frail!

Spring shall be your sentinel;

Guarding now untiring here

All of what we held so dear,

All of what we loved so well!

Lay your costly roses down,

Civic wreath and crown and cross;

Turn away with hearts made great

By the greatness of your loss!

Spring shall wait;—

To her sacred care entrust

All of what is left us here:—

Dust to dust!

Lay your costly roses down,

Civic wreath and cross and crown;

These are frail!

In the dim, unwonted shade,

These will fade!

But when next ye come this way,

Ye shall find the Spring still here;

And a grave with violets set;

Purple, living violet,

With the tears of heaven wet.

Back to Index Next