I.PRELUDE.A wind and a voice from the North!A courier-wind sent forthFrom the mountains to the sea:A summons borne to meFrom halls which the Muses haunt, from hills where the heart and the wind are free!“Come from the outer throng!”(Such was the burden it bore,)“Thou who hast gone before,Hither! and sing us a song,Far from the round of the town and the sound of the great world’s roar!”O masterful voice of Youth;That will have, like the upland wind, its own wild way!O choral words, that with every season riseLike the warblings of orchard-birds at break of day!O faces, fresh with the light of morning skies!No marvel world-worn toilers seek you here,Even as they life renew, from year to year,In woods and meadows lit with blossoming May;But O, blithe voices, that have such sweet power,Unto your high behest this summer hourWhat answer has the poet? how shall he frame his lay?II.THEME.“What shall my song rehearse?” I saidTo a wise bard, whose hoary headIs bowed, like Kearsarge crouching lowBeneath a winter weight of snow,But whose songs of passion, joy, or scorn,Within a fiery heart are born.“What can I spread, what proper feastFor these young Magi of the East?What wisdom find, what mystic lore,What chant they have not heard before?Strange words of old has every tongueThose happy cloistered hills among;For each riddle I divineThey can answer me with nine;Their footsteps by the Muse are led,Their lips on Plato’s honey fed;Their eyes have skill to read the pageOf Theban bard or Attic sage;For them all Nature’s mysteries,—The deep-down secrets of the seas,The cyclone’s whirl, the lightning’s shock,The language of the riven rock;They know the starry sisters seven,—What clouds the molten suns enfold,And all the golden woof of heavenUnravelled in their lens behold!Gazing in a thousand eyes,So rapt and clear, so wonder-wise,What shall my language picture, then,Beyond their wont—that has not reached their ken?“What else are poets used to sing,Who sing of youth, than laurelled fame and love?But ah! it needs no words to moveYoung hearts to some impassioned vow,To whom already on the wingThe blind god hastens. Even nowTheir pulses quiver with a thrillThan all that wisdom wiser still.Nor any need to tell of rustling bays,Of honor ever at the victor’s hand,To them who at the portals standLike mettled steeds,—each eager from controlTo leap, and, where the corso lies ablaze,Let out his speed and soonest pass the goal.“What is there left? what shall my verseWithin those ancient halls rehearse?”Deep in his heart my plaint the minstrel weighed,And a subtle answer made:“The world that is, the ways of men,Not yet are glassed within their ken.Their foster-mother holds them long,—Long, long to youth,—short, short to age, appearThe rounds of her Olympic Year,—Their ears are quickened for the trumpet-call.Sing to them one true song,Ere from the Happy Vale they turn,Of all the Abyssinian craved to learn,And dared his fate, and scaled the mountain-wallTo join the ranks without, and meet what might befall.”III.VESTIGIA RETRORSUM.Gone the Arcadian age,When, from his hillside hermitageSent forth, the gentle scholar strodeAt ease upon a royal road,And found the outer regions all they seemIn Youth’s prophetic dream.The graduate took his station thenBy right, a ruler among men:Courtly the three estates, and sure;The bar, the bench, the pulpit, pure;No cosmic doubts arose, to vexThe preacher’s heart, his faith perplex.Content in ancient paths he trod,Nor searched beyond his Book for God.Great virtue lurked in many a sawAnd in the doctor’s Latin lay;Men thought, lived, died, in the appointed way.Yet eloquence was slave to law,And law to right: the statesman soughtA patriot’s fame, and served his land, unbought,And bore erect his front, and held his oath in awe.IV.ÆREA PROLES.But, now, far other daysHave made less green the poet’s bays,—Have less revered the band and gown,The grave physician’s learnéd frown,—Shaken the penitential mindThat read the text nor looked behind,—Brought from his throne the bookman down,Made hard the road to station and renown!Now from this seclusion deepThe scholar wakes,—as one from sleep,As one from sleep remote and sweet,In some fragrant garden-closeBetween the lily and the rose,Roused by the tramp of many feet,Leaps up to find a ruthless, warring band,Dust, strife, an untried weapon in his hand!The time unto itself is strange,Driven on from change to change,Neither of past nor present sure,The ideal vanished nor the real secure.Heaven has faded from the skies,Faith hides apart and weeps with clouded eyes;A noise of cries we hear, a noise of creeds,While the old heroic deedsNot of the leaders now are told, as then,But of lowly, common men.See by what paths the loud-voiced gainTheir little heights above the plain:Truth, honor, virtue, cast awayFor the poor plaudits of a day!Now fashion guides at willThe artist’s brush, the writer’s quill,While, for a weary time unknown,The reverent workman toils alone,Asking for bread and given but a stone.Fettered with gold the statesman’s tongue;Now, even the church, amongNew doubts and strange discoveries, half in vainDefends her long, ancestral reign;Now, than all others grown more great,That which was the last estateBy turns reflects and rules the age,—Laughs, scolds, weeps, counsels, jeers,—a jester and a sage!V.ENCHANTMENTS.Here, in Learning’s shaded haunt,The battle-fugue and mingled cries forlornSoftened to music seem, nor the clear spirit daunt;Here, in the gracious world that looksFrom earth and sky and books,Easeful and sweet it seems all else to scornThan works of noble use and virtue born;Brave hope and high ambition consecrateOur coming years to something great.But when the man has stood,Anon, in garish outer light,Feeling the first wild fever of the bloodThat places self with self at strifeWhether to hoard or drain the wine of life,—When the broad pageant flares upon the sight,And tuneful Pleasure plumes her wingAnd the crowds jostle and the mad bells ring,—Then he, who sees the vain world take slow heedAlbeit of his worthiest and best,And still, through years of failure and unrest,Would keep inviolate his vow,Of all his faith and valor has sore need!Even then, I know, do nobly as we will,What we would not, we do, and see not how;That which we would, is not, we know not why;Some fortune holds us from our purpose still,—Chance sternly beats us back, and turns our steps awry!VI.YOUTH AND AGE.How slow, how sure, how swift,The sands within each glass,The brief, illusive moments, pass!Half unawares we mark their driftTill the awakened heart cries out,—Alas!Alas, the fair occasion fled,The precious chance to action all unwed!And murmurs in its depths the old refrain,—Had we but known betimes what now we know in vain!When the veil from the eyes is liftedThe seer’s head is gray;When the sailor to shore has driftedThe sirens are far away.Why must the clearer vision,The wisdom of Life’s late hour,Come, as in Fate’s derision,When the hand has lost its power?Is there a rarer being,Is there a fairer sphereWhere the strong are not unseeing,And the harvests are not sere;Where, ere the seasons dwindleThey yield their due return;Where the lamps of knowledge kindleWhile the flames of youth still burn?O for the young man’s chances!O for the old man’s will!Those flee while this advances,And the strong years cheat us still.VII.WHAT CHEER?Is there naught else?—you say,—No braver prospect far away?No gladder song, no ringing callBeyond the misty mountain-wall?And were it thus indeed, I knowYour hearts would still with courage glow;I know how yon historic streamIs laden yet, as in the past,With dreamful longings on it castBy those who saunter from the crownOf this broad slope, their reverend Academe,—Who reach the meadowed banks, and lay them downOn the green sward, and set their faces south,Embarked in Fancy’s shallop there,And with the current seek the river’s mouth,Finding the outer ocean grand and fair.Ay, like the stream’s perpetual tide,Wave after wave each blithe, successive throngMust join the main and wander far and wide.To you the golden, vanward years belong!Ye need not fear to leave the shore:Not seldom youth has shamed the sageWith riper wisdom,—but to ageYouth, youth, returns no more!Be yours the strength by will to conquer fate,Since to the man who sees his purpose clear,And gains that knowledge of his sphereWithin which lies all happiness,—Without, all danger and distress,—And seeks the right, content to strive and wait,To him all good things flow, nor honor crowns him late.VIII.PHAROS.One such there was, that brother elder-bornAnd loftiest,—from your household tornIn the rathe spring-time, ereHis steps could seek their olden pathways here.Mourn!Mourn, for your Mother mourns, of him bereft,—Her strong one! he is fallen:But has leftHis works your heritage and guide,Through East and West his stalwart fame divide.Mourn, for the liberal youth,The undaunted spirit whose quintessence rare,Fanned by the Norseland air,Saw flaming in its own white heat the truthThat Man, whate’er his ancestry,Tanned by what sun or exiled from what shore,Hears in his soul the high command,—Be Free!For him who, at the parting of the ways,Disdained the flowery path, and gaveHis succor to the hunted Afric slave,Whose cause he chose nor feared the world’s dispraise;Yet found anon the right become the might,And, in the long revenge of time,Lived to renown and hoary years sublime.Ye know him now, your beacon-light!Ay, he was fronted like a tower,—In thought large-moulded, as of frame;He that, in the supreme hour,Sat brooding at the river-heads of powerWith sovereign strength for every need that came!Not for that blameless one the placeThat opens wide to men of lesser race;—Even as of old the votes are given,And Aristides is from Athens driven;But for our statesman, in his grander trustNo less the undefiled, The Just,—With poesy and learning lightly worn,And knees that bent to Heaven night and morn,—For him that sacred, unimpassioned seat,Where right and wrong for stainless judgment meetAbove the greed, the strife, the party call.—Henceforth letchase’srobes on no base shoulders fall!IX.ATLANTIS SURGENS.Well may your hearts be valiant,—ye who standWithin that glory from the past,And see how ripe the time, how fair the landIn which your lot is cast!For us alone your sorrow,Ye children of the morrow,—For us, who struggle yet, and wait,Sent forth too early and too late!But yours shall be our tenure handed down,Conveyed in blood, stamped with the martyr’s crown;For which the toilers long have wrought,And poets sung, and heroes fought;The new Saturnian age is yours,That juster season soon to beOn the near coasts (whereto your vessels sailBeyond the darkness and the gale),Of proud Atlantis risen from the sea!You shall not know the pain that now enduresThe surge, the smiting of the waves,The overhanging thunder,The shades of night which plunge engulféd underThose yawning island-caves;But in their stead for you shall glisten soonThe coral circlet and the still lagoon,Green shores of freedom, blest with calms,And sunlit streams and meads, and shadowy palms:Such joys await you, in our sorrows’ stead;Thither our charts have almost led;Nor in that land shall worth, truth, courage, ask for alms.X.VALETE ET SALVETE.O, trained beneath the Northern Star!Worth, courage, honor, these indeedYour sustenance and birthright are!Now, from her sweet dominion freed,Your Foster Mother bids you speed;Her gracious hands the gates unbar,Her richest gifts you bear away,Her memories shall be your stay:Go where you will, her eyes your course shall mark afar.
I.PRELUDE.A wind and a voice from the North!A courier-wind sent forthFrom the mountains to the sea:A summons borne to meFrom halls which the Muses haunt, from hills where the heart and the wind are free!“Come from the outer throng!”(Such was the burden it bore,)“Thou who hast gone before,Hither! and sing us a song,Far from the round of the town and the sound of the great world’s roar!”O masterful voice of Youth;That will have, like the upland wind, its own wild way!O choral words, that with every season riseLike the warblings of orchard-birds at break of day!O faces, fresh with the light of morning skies!No marvel world-worn toilers seek you here,Even as they life renew, from year to year,In woods and meadows lit with blossoming May;But O, blithe voices, that have such sweet power,Unto your high behest this summer hourWhat answer has the poet? how shall he frame his lay?II.THEME.“What shall my song rehearse?” I saidTo a wise bard, whose hoary headIs bowed, like Kearsarge crouching lowBeneath a winter weight of snow,But whose songs of passion, joy, or scorn,Within a fiery heart are born.“What can I spread, what proper feastFor these young Magi of the East?What wisdom find, what mystic lore,What chant they have not heard before?Strange words of old has every tongueThose happy cloistered hills among;For each riddle I divineThey can answer me with nine;Their footsteps by the Muse are led,Their lips on Plato’s honey fed;Their eyes have skill to read the pageOf Theban bard or Attic sage;For them all Nature’s mysteries,—The deep-down secrets of the seas,The cyclone’s whirl, the lightning’s shock,The language of the riven rock;They know the starry sisters seven,—What clouds the molten suns enfold,And all the golden woof of heavenUnravelled in their lens behold!Gazing in a thousand eyes,So rapt and clear, so wonder-wise,What shall my language picture, then,Beyond their wont—that has not reached their ken?“What else are poets used to sing,Who sing of youth, than laurelled fame and love?But ah! it needs no words to moveYoung hearts to some impassioned vow,To whom already on the wingThe blind god hastens. Even nowTheir pulses quiver with a thrillThan all that wisdom wiser still.Nor any need to tell of rustling bays,Of honor ever at the victor’s hand,To them who at the portals standLike mettled steeds,—each eager from controlTo leap, and, where the corso lies ablaze,Let out his speed and soonest pass the goal.“What is there left? what shall my verseWithin those ancient halls rehearse?”Deep in his heart my plaint the minstrel weighed,And a subtle answer made:“The world that is, the ways of men,Not yet are glassed within their ken.Their foster-mother holds them long,—Long, long to youth,—short, short to age, appearThe rounds of her Olympic Year,—Their ears are quickened for the trumpet-call.Sing to them one true song,Ere from the Happy Vale they turn,Of all the Abyssinian craved to learn,And dared his fate, and scaled the mountain-wallTo join the ranks without, and meet what might befall.”III.VESTIGIA RETRORSUM.Gone the Arcadian age,When, from his hillside hermitageSent forth, the gentle scholar strodeAt ease upon a royal road,And found the outer regions all they seemIn Youth’s prophetic dream.The graduate took his station thenBy right, a ruler among men:Courtly the three estates, and sure;The bar, the bench, the pulpit, pure;No cosmic doubts arose, to vexThe preacher’s heart, his faith perplex.Content in ancient paths he trod,Nor searched beyond his Book for God.Great virtue lurked in many a sawAnd in the doctor’s Latin lay;Men thought, lived, died, in the appointed way.Yet eloquence was slave to law,And law to right: the statesman soughtA patriot’s fame, and served his land, unbought,And bore erect his front, and held his oath in awe.IV.ÆREA PROLES.But, now, far other daysHave made less green the poet’s bays,—Have less revered the band and gown,The grave physician’s learnéd frown,—Shaken the penitential mindThat read the text nor looked behind,—Brought from his throne the bookman down,Made hard the road to station and renown!Now from this seclusion deepThe scholar wakes,—as one from sleep,As one from sleep remote and sweet,In some fragrant garden-closeBetween the lily and the rose,Roused by the tramp of many feet,Leaps up to find a ruthless, warring band,Dust, strife, an untried weapon in his hand!The time unto itself is strange,Driven on from change to change,Neither of past nor present sure,The ideal vanished nor the real secure.Heaven has faded from the skies,Faith hides apart and weeps with clouded eyes;A noise of cries we hear, a noise of creeds,While the old heroic deedsNot of the leaders now are told, as then,But of lowly, common men.See by what paths the loud-voiced gainTheir little heights above the plain:Truth, honor, virtue, cast awayFor the poor plaudits of a day!Now fashion guides at willThe artist’s brush, the writer’s quill,While, for a weary time unknown,The reverent workman toils alone,Asking for bread and given but a stone.Fettered with gold the statesman’s tongue;Now, even the church, amongNew doubts and strange discoveries, half in vainDefends her long, ancestral reign;Now, than all others grown more great,That which was the last estateBy turns reflects and rules the age,—Laughs, scolds, weeps, counsels, jeers,—a jester and a sage!V.ENCHANTMENTS.Here, in Learning’s shaded haunt,The battle-fugue and mingled cries forlornSoftened to music seem, nor the clear spirit daunt;Here, in the gracious world that looksFrom earth and sky and books,Easeful and sweet it seems all else to scornThan works of noble use and virtue born;Brave hope and high ambition consecrateOur coming years to something great.But when the man has stood,Anon, in garish outer light,Feeling the first wild fever of the bloodThat places self with self at strifeWhether to hoard or drain the wine of life,—When the broad pageant flares upon the sight,And tuneful Pleasure plumes her wingAnd the crowds jostle and the mad bells ring,—Then he, who sees the vain world take slow heedAlbeit of his worthiest and best,And still, through years of failure and unrest,Would keep inviolate his vow,Of all his faith and valor has sore need!Even then, I know, do nobly as we will,What we would not, we do, and see not how;That which we would, is not, we know not why;Some fortune holds us from our purpose still,—Chance sternly beats us back, and turns our steps awry!VI.YOUTH AND AGE.How slow, how sure, how swift,The sands within each glass,The brief, illusive moments, pass!Half unawares we mark their driftTill the awakened heart cries out,—Alas!Alas, the fair occasion fled,The precious chance to action all unwed!And murmurs in its depths the old refrain,—Had we but known betimes what now we know in vain!When the veil from the eyes is liftedThe seer’s head is gray;When the sailor to shore has driftedThe sirens are far away.Why must the clearer vision,The wisdom of Life’s late hour,Come, as in Fate’s derision,When the hand has lost its power?Is there a rarer being,Is there a fairer sphereWhere the strong are not unseeing,And the harvests are not sere;Where, ere the seasons dwindleThey yield their due return;Where the lamps of knowledge kindleWhile the flames of youth still burn?O for the young man’s chances!O for the old man’s will!Those flee while this advances,And the strong years cheat us still.VII.WHAT CHEER?Is there naught else?—you say,—No braver prospect far away?No gladder song, no ringing callBeyond the misty mountain-wall?And were it thus indeed, I knowYour hearts would still with courage glow;I know how yon historic streamIs laden yet, as in the past,With dreamful longings on it castBy those who saunter from the crownOf this broad slope, their reverend Academe,—Who reach the meadowed banks, and lay them downOn the green sward, and set their faces south,Embarked in Fancy’s shallop there,And with the current seek the river’s mouth,Finding the outer ocean grand and fair.Ay, like the stream’s perpetual tide,Wave after wave each blithe, successive throngMust join the main and wander far and wide.To you the golden, vanward years belong!Ye need not fear to leave the shore:Not seldom youth has shamed the sageWith riper wisdom,—but to ageYouth, youth, returns no more!Be yours the strength by will to conquer fate,Since to the man who sees his purpose clear,And gains that knowledge of his sphereWithin which lies all happiness,—Without, all danger and distress,—And seeks the right, content to strive and wait,To him all good things flow, nor honor crowns him late.VIII.PHAROS.One such there was, that brother elder-bornAnd loftiest,—from your household tornIn the rathe spring-time, ereHis steps could seek their olden pathways here.Mourn!Mourn, for your Mother mourns, of him bereft,—Her strong one! he is fallen:But has leftHis works your heritage and guide,Through East and West his stalwart fame divide.Mourn, for the liberal youth,The undaunted spirit whose quintessence rare,Fanned by the Norseland air,Saw flaming in its own white heat the truthThat Man, whate’er his ancestry,Tanned by what sun or exiled from what shore,Hears in his soul the high command,—Be Free!For him who, at the parting of the ways,Disdained the flowery path, and gaveHis succor to the hunted Afric slave,Whose cause he chose nor feared the world’s dispraise;Yet found anon the right become the might,And, in the long revenge of time,Lived to renown and hoary years sublime.Ye know him now, your beacon-light!Ay, he was fronted like a tower,—In thought large-moulded, as of frame;He that, in the supreme hour,Sat brooding at the river-heads of powerWith sovereign strength for every need that came!Not for that blameless one the placeThat opens wide to men of lesser race;—Even as of old the votes are given,And Aristides is from Athens driven;But for our statesman, in his grander trustNo less the undefiled, The Just,—With poesy and learning lightly worn,And knees that bent to Heaven night and morn,—For him that sacred, unimpassioned seat,Where right and wrong for stainless judgment meetAbove the greed, the strife, the party call.—Henceforth letchase’srobes on no base shoulders fall!IX.ATLANTIS SURGENS.Well may your hearts be valiant,—ye who standWithin that glory from the past,And see how ripe the time, how fair the landIn which your lot is cast!For us alone your sorrow,Ye children of the morrow,—For us, who struggle yet, and wait,Sent forth too early and too late!But yours shall be our tenure handed down,Conveyed in blood, stamped with the martyr’s crown;For which the toilers long have wrought,And poets sung, and heroes fought;The new Saturnian age is yours,That juster season soon to beOn the near coasts (whereto your vessels sailBeyond the darkness and the gale),Of proud Atlantis risen from the sea!You shall not know the pain that now enduresThe surge, the smiting of the waves,The overhanging thunder,The shades of night which plunge engulféd underThose yawning island-caves;But in their stead for you shall glisten soonThe coral circlet and the still lagoon,Green shores of freedom, blest with calms,And sunlit streams and meads, and shadowy palms:Such joys await you, in our sorrows’ stead;Thither our charts have almost led;Nor in that land shall worth, truth, courage, ask for alms.X.VALETE ET SALVETE.O, trained beneath the Northern Star!Worth, courage, honor, these indeedYour sustenance and birthright are!Now, from her sweet dominion freed,Your Foster Mother bids you speed;Her gracious hands the gates unbar,Her richest gifts you bear away,Her memories shall be your stay:Go where you will, her eyes your course shall mark afar.
A wind and a voice from the North!A courier-wind sent forthFrom the mountains to the sea:A summons borne to meFrom halls which the Muses haunt, from hills where the heart and the wind are free!
A wind and a voice from the North!
A courier-wind sent forth
From the mountains to the sea:
A summons borne to me
From halls which the Muses haunt, from hills where the heart and the wind are free!
“Come from the outer throng!”(Such was the burden it bore,)“Thou who hast gone before,Hither! and sing us a song,Far from the round of the town and the sound of the great world’s roar!”
“Come from the outer throng!”
(Such was the burden it bore,)
“Thou who hast gone before,
Hither! and sing us a song,
Far from the round of the town and the sound of the great world’s roar!”
O masterful voice of Youth;That will have, like the upland wind, its own wild way!O choral words, that with every season riseLike the warblings of orchard-birds at break of day!O faces, fresh with the light of morning skies!
O masterful voice of Youth;
That will have, like the upland wind, its own wild way!
O choral words, that with every season rise
Like the warblings of orchard-birds at break of day!
O faces, fresh with the light of morning skies!
No marvel world-worn toilers seek you here,Even as they life renew, from year to year,In woods and meadows lit with blossoming May;But O, blithe voices, that have such sweet power,Unto your high behest this summer hourWhat answer has the poet? how shall he frame his lay?
No marvel world-worn toilers seek you here,
Even as they life renew, from year to year,
In woods and meadows lit with blossoming May;
But O, blithe voices, that have such sweet power,
Unto your high behest this summer hour
What answer has the poet? how shall he frame his lay?
“What shall my song rehearse?” I saidTo a wise bard, whose hoary headIs bowed, like Kearsarge crouching lowBeneath a winter weight of snow,But whose songs of passion, joy, or scorn,Within a fiery heart are born.
“What shall my song rehearse?” I said
To a wise bard, whose hoary head
Is bowed, like Kearsarge crouching low
Beneath a winter weight of snow,
But whose songs of passion, joy, or scorn,
Within a fiery heart are born.
“What can I spread, what proper feastFor these young Magi of the East?What wisdom find, what mystic lore,What chant they have not heard before?Strange words of old has every tongueThose happy cloistered hills among;For each riddle I divineThey can answer me with nine;Their footsteps by the Muse are led,Their lips on Plato’s honey fed;Their eyes have skill to read the pageOf Theban bard or Attic sage;For them all Nature’s mysteries,—The deep-down secrets of the seas,The cyclone’s whirl, the lightning’s shock,The language of the riven rock;They know the starry sisters seven,—What clouds the molten suns enfold,And all the golden woof of heavenUnravelled in their lens behold!Gazing in a thousand eyes,So rapt and clear, so wonder-wise,What shall my language picture, then,Beyond their wont—that has not reached their ken?
“What can I spread, what proper feast
For these young Magi of the East?
What wisdom find, what mystic lore,
What chant they have not heard before?
Strange words of old has every tongue
Those happy cloistered hills among;
For each riddle I divine
They can answer me with nine;
Their footsteps by the Muse are led,
Their lips on Plato’s honey fed;
Their eyes have skill to read the page
Of Theban bard or Attic sage;
For them all Nature’s mysteries,—
The deep-down secrets of the seas,
The cyclone’s whirl, the lightning’s shock,
The language of the riven rock;
They know the starry sisters seven,—
What clouds the molten suns enfold,
And all the golden woof of heaven
Unravelled in their lens behold!
Gazing in a thousand eyes,
So rapt and clear, so wonder-wise,
What shall my language picture, then,
Beyond their wont—that has not reached their ken?
“What else are poets used to sing,Who sing of youth, than laurelled fame and love?But ah! it needs no words to moveYoung hearts to some impassioned vow,To whom already on the wingThe blind god hastens. Even nowTheir pulses quiver with a thrillThan all that wisdom wiser still.Nor any need to tell of rustling bays,Of honor ever at the victor’s hand,To them who at the portals standLike mettled steeds,—each eager from controlTo leap, and, where the corso lies ablaze,Let out his speed and soonest pass the goal.
“What else are poets used to sing,
Who sing of youth, than laurelled fame and love?
But ah! it needs no words to move
Young hearts to some impassioned vow,
To whom already on the wing
The blind god hastens. Even now
Their pulses quiver with a thrill
Than all that wisdom wiser still.
Nor any need to tell of rustling bays,
Of honor ever at the victor’s hand,
To them who at the portals stand
Like mettled steeds,—each eager from control
To leap, and, where the corso lies ablaze,
Let out his speed and soonest pass the goal.
“What is there left? what shall my verseWithin those ancient halls rehearse?”Deep in his heart my plaint the minstrel weighed,And a subtle answer made:“The world that is, the ways of men,Not yet are glassed within their ken.Their foster-mother holds them long,—Long, long to youth,—short, short to age, appearThe rounds of her Olympic Year,—Their ears are quickened for the trumpet-call.Sing to them one true song,Ere from the Happy Vale they turn,Of all the Abyssinian craved to learn,And dared his fate, and scaled the mountain-wallTo join the ranks without, and meet what might befall.”
“What is there left? what shall my verse
Within those ancient halls rehearse?”
Deep in his heart my plaint the minstrel weighed,
And a subtle answer made:
“The world that is, the ways of men,
Not yet are glassed within their ken.
Their foster-mother holds them long,—
Long, long to youth,—short, short to age, appear
The rounds of her Olympic Year,—
Their ears are quickened for the trumpet-call.
Sing to them one true song,
Ere from the Happy Vale they turn,
Of all the Abyssinian craved to learn,
And dared his fate, and scaled the mountain-wall
To join the ranks without, and meet what might befall.”
Gone the Arcadian age,When, from his hillside hermitageSent forth, the gentle scholar strodeAt ease upon a royal road,And found the outer regions all they seemIn Youth’s prophetic dream.The graduate took his station thenBy right, a ruler among men:Courtly the three estates, and sure;The bar, the bench, the pulpit, pure;No cosmic doubts arose, to vexThe preacher’s heart, his faith perplex.Content in ancient paths he trod,Nor searched beyond his Book for God.Great virtue lurked in many a sawAnd in the doctor’s Latin lay;Men thought, lived, died, in the appointed way.Yet eloquence was slave to law,And law to right: the statesman soughtA patriot’s fame, and served his land, unbought,And bore erect his front, and held his oath in awe.
Gone the Arcadian age,
When, from his hillside hermitage
Sent forth, the gentle scholar strode
At ease upon a royal road,
And found the outer regions all they seem
In Youth’s prophetic dream.
The graduate took his station then
By right, a ruler among men:
Courtly the three estates, and sure;
The bar, the bench, the pulpit, pure;
No cosmic doubts arose, to vex
The preacher’s heart, his faith perplex.
Content in ancient paths he trod,
Nor searched beyond his Book for God.
Great virtue lurked in many a saw
And in the doctor’s Latin lay;
Men thought, lived, died, in the appointed way.
Yet eloquence was slave to law,
And law to right: the statesman sought
A patriot’s fame, and served his land, unbought,
And bore erect his front, and held his oath in awe.
But, now, far other daysHave made less green the poet’s bays,—Have less revered the band and gown,The grave physician’s learnéd frown,—Shaken the penitential mindThat read the text nor looked behind,—Brought from his throne the bookman down,Made hard the road to station and renown!Now from this seclusion deepThe scholar wakes,—as one from sleep,As one from sleep remote and sweet,In some fragrant garden-closeBetween the lily and the rose,Roused by the tramp of many feet,Leaps up to find a ruthless, warring band,Dust, strife, an untried weapon in his hand!The time unto itself is strange,Driven on from change to change,Neither of past nor present sure,The ideal vanished nor the real secure.Heaven has faded from the skies,Faith hides apart and weeps with clouded eyes;A noise of cries we hear, a noise of creeds,While the old heroic deedsNot of the leaders now are told, as then,But of lowly, common men.See by what paths the loud-voiced gainTheir little heights above the plain:Truth, honor, virtue, cast awayFor the poor plaudits of a day!Now fashion guides at willThe artist’s brush, the writer’s quill,While, for a weary time unknown,The reverent workman toils alone,Asking for bread and given but a stone.Fettered with gold the statesman’s tongue;Now, even the church, amongNew doubts and strange discoveries, half in vainDefends her long, ancestral reign;Now, than all others grown more great,That which was the last estateBy turns reflects and rules the age,—Laughs, scolds, weeps, counsels, jeers,—a jester and a sage!
But, now, far other days
Have made less green the poet’s bays,—
Have less revered the band and gown,
The grave physician’s learnéd frown,—
Shaken the penitential mind
That read the text nor looked behind,—
Brought from his throne the bookman down,
Made hard the road to station and renown!
Now from this seclusion deep
The scholar wakes,—as one from sleep,
As one from sleep remote and sweet,
In some fragrant garden-close
Between the lily and the rose,
Roused by the tramp of many feet,
Leaps up to find a ruthless, warring band,
Dust, strife, an untried weapon in his hand!
The time unto itself is strange,
Driven on from change to change,
Neither of past nor present sure,
The ideal vanished nor the real secure.
Heaven has faded from the skies,
Faith hides apart and weeps with clouded eyes;
A noise of cries we hear, a noise of creeds,
While the old heroic deeds
Not of the leaders now are told, as then,
But of lowly, common men.
See by what paths the loud-voiced gain
Their little heights above the plain:
Truth, honor, virtue, cast away
For the poor plaudits of a day!
Now fashion guides at will
The artist’s brush, the writer’s quill,
While, for a weary time unknown,
The reverent workman toils alone,
Asking for bread and given but a stone.
Fettered with gold the statesman’s tongue;
Now, even the church, among
New doubts and strange discoveries, half in vain
Defends her long, ancestral reign;
Now, than all others grown more great,
That which was the last estate
By turns reflects and rules the age,—
Laughs, scolds, weeps, counsels, jeers,—a jester and a sage!
Here, in Learning’s shaded haunt,The battle-fugue and mingled cries forlornSoftened to music seem, nor the clear spirit daunt;Here, in the gracious world that looksFrom earth and sky and books,Easeful and sweet it seems all else to scornThan works of noble use and virtue born;Brave hope and high ambition consecrateOur coming years to something great.But when the man has stood,Anon, in garish outer light,Feeling the first wild fever of the bloodThat places self with self at strifeWhether to hoard or drain the wine of life,—When the broad pageant flares upon the sight,And tuneful Pleasure plumes her wingAnd the crowds jostle and the mad bells ring,—Then he, who sees the vain world take slow heedAlbeit of his worthiest and best,And still, through years of failure and unrest,Would keep inviolate his vow,Of all his faith and valor has sore need!Even then, I know, do nobly as we will,What we would not, we do, and see not how;That which we would, is not, we know not why;Some fortune holds us from our purpose still,—Chance sternly beats us back, and turns our steps awry!
Here, in Learning’s shaded haunt,
The battle-fugue and mingled cries forlorn
Softened to music seem, nor the clear spirit daunt;
Here, in the gracious world that looks
From earth and sky and books,
Easeful and sweet it seems all else to scorn
Than works of noble use and virtue born;
Brave hope and high ambition consecrate
Our coming years to something great.
But when the man has stood,
Anon, in garish outer light,
Feeling the first wild fever of the blood
That places self with self at strife
Whether to hoard or drain the wine of life,—
When the broad pageant flares upon the sight,
And tuneful Pleasure plumes her wing
And the crowds jostle and the mad bells ring,—
Then he, who sees the vain world take slow heed
Albeit of his worthiest and best,
And still, through years of failure and unrest,
Would keep inviolate his vow,
Of all his faith and valor has sore need!
Even then, I know, do nobly as we will,
What we would not, we do, and see not how;
That which we would, is not, we know not why;
Some fortune holds us from our purpose still,—
Chance sternly beats us back, and turns our steps awry!
How slow, how sure, how swift,The sands within each glass,The brief, illusive moments, pass!Half unawares we mark their driftTill the awakened heart cries out,—Alas!Alas, the fair occasion fled,The precious chance to action all unwed!And murmurs in its depths the old refrain,—Had we but known betimes what now we know in vain!
How slow, how sure, how swift,
The sands within each glass,
The brief, illusive moments, pass!
Half unawares we mark their drift
Till the awakened heart cries out,—Alas!
Alas, the fair occasion fled,
The precious chance to action all unwed!
And murmurs in its depths the old refrain,—
Had we but known betimes what now we know in vain!
When the veil from the eyes is liftedThe seer’s head is gray;When the sailor to shore has driftedThe sirens are far away.Why must the clearer vision,The wisdom of Life’s late hour,Come, as in Fate’s derision,When the hand has lost its power?
When the veil from the eyes is lifted
The seer’s head is gray;
When the sailor to shore has drifted
The sirens are far away.
Why must the clearer vision,
The wisdom of Life’s late hour,
Come, as in Fate’s derision,
When the hand has lost its power?
Is there a rarer being,Is there a fairer sphereWhere the strong are not unseeing,And the harvests are not sere;Where, ere the seasons dwindleThey yield their due return;Where the lamps of knowledge kindleWhile the flames of youth still burn?O for the young man’s chances!O for the old man’s will!Those flee while this advances,And the strong years cheat us still.
Is there a rarer being,
Is there a fairer sphere
Where the strong are not unseeing,
And the harvests are not sere;
Where, ere the seasons dwindle
They yield their due return;
Where the lamps of knowledge kindle
While the flames of youth still burn?
O for the young man’s chances!
O for the old man’s will!
Those flee while this advances,
And the strong years cheat us still.
Is there naught else?—you say,—No braver prospect far away?No gladder song, no ringing callBeyond the misty mountain-wall?And were it thus indeed, I knowYour hearts would still with courage glow;I know how yon historic streamIs laden yet, as in the past,With dreamful longings on it castBy those who saunter from the crownOf this broad slope, their reverend Academe,—Who reach the meadowed banks, and lay them downOn the green sward, and set their faces south,Embarked in Fancy’s shallop there,And with the current seek the river’s mouth,Finding the outer ocean grand and fair.Ay, like the stream’s perpetual tide,Wave after wave each blithe, successive throng
Is there naught else?—you say,—
No braver prospect far away?
No gladder song, no ringing call
Beyond the misty mountain-wall?
And were it thus indeed, I know
Your hearts would still with courage glow;
I know how yon historic stream
Is laden yet, as in the past,
With dreamful longings on it cast
By those who saunter from the crown
Of this broad slope, their reverend Academe,—
Who reach the meadowed banks, and lay them down
On the green sward, and set their faces south,
Embarked in Fancy’s shallop there,
And with the current seek the river’s mouth,
Finding the outer ocean grand and fair.
Ay, like the stream’s perpetual tide,
Wave after wave each blithe, successive throng
Must join the main and wander far and wide.To you the golden, vanward years belong!Ye need not fear to leave the shore:Not seldom youth has shamed the sageWith riper wisdom,—but to ageYouth, youth, returns no more!Be yours the strength by will to conquer fate,Since to the man who sees his purpose clear,And gains that knowledge of his sphereWithin which lies all happiness,—Without, all danger and distress,—And seeks the right, content to strive and wait,To him all good things flow, nor honor crowns him late.
Must join the main and wander far and wide.
To you the golden, vanward years belong!
Ye need not fear to leave the shore:
Not seldom youth has shamed the sage
With riper wisdom,—but to age
Youth, youth, returns no more!
Be yours the strength by will to conquer fate,
Since to the man who sees his purpose clear,
And gains that knowledge of his sphere
Within which lies all happiness,—
Without, all danger and distress,—
And seeks the right, content to strive and wait,
To him all good things flow, nor honor crowns him late.
One such there was, that brother elder-bornAnd loftiest,—from your household tornIn the rathe spring-time, ereHis steps could seek their olden pathways here.Mourn!Mourn, for your Mother mourns, of him bereft,—Her strong one! he is fallen:But has leftHis works your heritage and guide,Through East and West his stalwart fame divide.Mourn, for the liberal youth,The undaunted spirit whose quintessence rare,Fanned by the Norseland air,Saw flaming in its own white heat the truthThat Man, whate’er his ancestry,Tanned by what sun or exiled from what shore,Hears in his soul the high command,—Be Free!
One such there was, that brother elder-born
And loftiest,—from your household torn
In the rathe spring-time, ere
His steps could seek their olden pathways here.
Mourn!
Mourn, for your Mother mourns, of him bereft,—
Her strong one! he is fallen:
But has left
His works your heritage and guide,
Through East and West his stalwart fame divide.
Mourn, for the liberal youth,
The undaunted spirit whose quintessence rare,
Fanned by the Norseland air,
Saw flaming in its own white heat the truth
That Man, whate’er his ancestry,
Tanned by what sun or exiled from what shore,
Hears in his soul the high command,—Be Free!
For him who, at the parting of the ways,Disdained the flowery path, and gaveHis succor to the hunted Afric slave,Whose cause he chose nor feared the world’s dispraise;Yet found anon the right become the might,And, in the long revenge of time,Lived to renown and hoary years sublime.Ye know him now, your beacon-light!Ay, he was fronted like a tower,—In thought large-moulded, as of frame;He that, in the supreme hour,Sat brooding at the river-heads of powerWith sovereign strength for every need that came!Not for that blameless one the placeThat opens wide to men of lesser race;—Even as of old the votes are given,And Aristides is from Athens driven;But for our statesman, in his grander trustNo less the undefiled, The Just,—With poesy and learning lightly worn,And knees that bent to Heaven night and morn,—For him that sacred, unimpassioned seat,Where right and wrong for stainless judgment meetAbove the greed, the strife, the party call.—Henceforth letchase’srobes on no base shoulders fall!
For him who, at the parting of the ways,
Disdained the flowery path, and gave
His succor to the hunted Afric slave,
Whose cause he chose nor feared the world’s dispraise;
Yet found anon the right become the might,
And, in the long revenge of time,
Lived to renown and hoary years sublime.
Ye know him now, your beacon-light!
Ay, he was fronted like a tower,—
In thought large-moulded, as of frame;
He that, in the supreme hour,
Sat brooding at the river-heads of power
With sovereign strength for every need that came!
Not for that blameless one the place
That opens wide to men of lesser race;—
Even as of old the votes are given,
And Aristides is from Athens driven;
But for our statesman, in his grander trust
No less the undefiled, The Just,—
With poesy and learning lightly worn,
And knees that bent to Heaven night and morn,—
For him that sacred, unimpassioned seat,
Where right and wrong for stainless judgment meet
Above the greed, the strife, the party call.—
Henceforth letchase’srobes on no base shoulders fall!
Well may your hearts be valiant,—ye who standWithin that glory from the past,And see how ripe the time, how fair the landIn which your lot is cast!For us alone your sorrow,Ye children of the morrow,—For us, who struggle yet, and wait,Sent forth too early and too late!But yours shall be our tenure handed down,Conveyed in blood, stamped with the martyr’s crown;For which the toilers long have wrought,And poets sung, and heroes fought;The new Saturnian age is yours,That juster season soon to beOn the near coasts (whereto your vessels sailBeyond the darkness and the gale),Of proud Atlantis risen from the sea!You shall not know the pain that now enduresThe surge, the smiting of the waves,The overhanging thunder,The shades of night which plunge engulféd underThose yawning island-caves;But in their stead for you shall glisten soonThe coral circlet and the still lagoon,Green shores of freedom, blest with calms,And sunlit streams and meads, and shadowy palms:Such joys await you, in our sorrows’ stead;Thither our charts have almost led;Nor in that land shall worth, truth, courage, ask for alms.
Well may your hearts be valiant,—ye who stand
Within that glory from the past,
And see how ripe the time, how fair the land
In which your lot is cast!
For us alone your sorrow,
Ye children of the morrow,—
For us, who struggle yet, and wait,
Sent forth too early and too late!
But yours shall be our tenure handed down,
Conveyed in blood, stamped with the martyr’s crown;
For which the toilers long have wrought,
And poets sung, and heroes fought;
The new Saturnian age is yours,
That juster season soon to be
On the near coasts (whereto your vessels sail
Beyond the darkness and the gale),
Of proud Atlantis risen from the sea!
You shall not know the pain that now endures
The surge, the smiting of the waves,
The overhanging thunder,
The shades of night which plunge engulféd under
Those yawning island-caves;
But in their stead for you shall glisten soon
The coral circlet and the still lagoon,
Green shores of freedom, blest with calms,
And sunlit streams and meads, and shadowy palms:
Such joys await you, in our sorrows’ stead;
Thither our charts have almost led;
Nor in that land shall worth, truth, courage, ask for alms.
O, trained beneath the Northern Star!Worth, courage, honor, these indeedYour sustenance and birthright are!Now, from her sweet dominion freed,Your Foster Mother bids you speed;Her gracious hands the gates unbar,Her richest gifts you bear away,Her memories shall be your stay:Go where you will, her eyes your course shall mark afar.
O, trained beneath the Northern Star!
Worth, courage, honor, these indeed
Your sustenance and birthright are!
Now, from her sweet dominion freed,
Your Foster Mother bids you speed;
Her gracious hands the gates unbar,
Her richest gifts you bear away,
Her memories shall be your stay:
Go where you will, her eyes your course shall mark afar.
June 25, 1873.
Earth, let thy softest mantle restOn this worn child to thee returning,Whose youth was nurtured at thy breast,Who loved thee with such tender yearning!He knew thy fields and woodland ways,And deemed thy humblest son his brother:—Asleep, beyond our blame or praise,We yield him back, O gentle Mother!Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill:Who has not read the life-long story?And dear we hold his fame, but stillThe man was dearer than his glory.And now to us are left aloneThe closet where his shadow lingers,The vacant chair,—that was a throne,—The pen, just fallen from his fingers.Wrath changed to kindness on that pen;Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey;One flash from out the cloud, and thenThe skies with smile and jest were sunny.Of hate he surely lacked the art,Who made his enemy his lover:O reverend head and Christian heart!Where now their like the round world over?He saw the goodness, not the taint,In many a poor, do-nothing creature,And gave to sinner and to saint,But kept his faith in human nature;Perchance he was not worldly-wise,Yet we who noted, standing nearer,The shrewd, kind twinkle in his eyes,For every weakness held him dearer.Alas that unto him who gaveSo much, so little should be given!Himself alone he might not saveOf all for whom his hands had striven.Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed:Men took, and passed, and left him lonely;—What marvel if, beneath his load,At times he craved—for justice only!Yet thanklessness, the serpent’s tooth,His lofty purpose could not alter;Toil had no power to bend his youth,Or make his lusty manhood falter;From envy’s sling, from slander’s dart,That armored soul the body shielded,Till one dark sorrow chilled his heart,And then he bowed his head and yielded.Now, now, we measure at its worthThe gracious presence gone forever!The wrinkled East, that gave him birth,Laments with every laboring river;Wild moan the free winds of the WestFor him who gathered to her prairiesThe sons of men, and made each crestThe haunt of happy household fairies;And anguish sits upon the mouthOf her who came to know him latest:His heart was ever thine, O South!He was thy truest friend, and greatest!He shunned thee in thy splendid shame,He stayed thee in thy voiceless sorrow;The day thou shalt forget his name,Fair South, can have no sadder morrow.The tears that fall from eyes unused,—The hands above his grave united,—The words of men whose lips he loosed,Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted,—Could he but know, and rest with this!Yet stay, through Death’s low-lying hollow,His one last foe’s insatiate hissOn that benignant shade would follow!Peace! while we shroud this man of menLet no unhallowed word be spoken!He will not answer thee again,His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken.Some holier cause, some vaster trustBeyond the veil, he doth inherit:O gently, Earth, receive his dust,And Heaven soothe his troubled spirit!
Earth, let thy softest mantle restOn this worn child to thee returning,Whose youth was nurtured at thy breast,Who loved thee with such tender yearning!He knew thy fields and woodland ways,And deemed thy humblest son his brother:—Asleep, beyond our blame or praise,We yield him back, O gentle Mother!Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill:Who has not read the life-long story?And dear we hold his fame, but stillThe man was dearer than his glory.And now to us are left aloneThe closet where his shadow lingers,The vacant chair,—that was a throne,—The pen, just fallen from his fingers.Wrath changed to kindness on that pen;Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey;One flash from out the cloud, and thenThe skies with smile and jest were sunny.Of hate he surely lacked the art,Who made his enemy his lover:O reverend head and Christian heart!Where now their like the round world over?He saw the goodness, not the taint,In many a poor, do-nothing creature,And gave to sinner and to saint,But kept his faith in human nature;Perchance he was not worldly-wise,Yet we who noted, standing nearer,The shrewd, kind twinkle in his eyes,For every weakness held him dearer.Alas that unto him who gaveSo much, so little should be given!Himself alone he might not saveOf all for whom his hands had striven.Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed:Men took, and passed, and left him lonely;—What marvel if, beneath his load,At times he craved—for justice only!Yet thanklessness, the serpent’s tooth,His lofty purpose could not alter;Toil had no power to bend his youth,Or make his lusty manhood falter;From envy’s sling, from slander’s dart,That armored soul the body shielded,Till one dark sorrow chilled his heart,And then he bowed his head and yielded.Now, now, we measure at its worthThe gracious presence gone forever!The wrinkled East, that gave him birth,Laments with every laboring river;Wild moan the free winds of the WestFor him who gathered to her prairiesThe sons of men, and made each crestThe haunt of happy household fairies;And anguish sits upon the mouthOf her who came to know him latest:His heart was ever thine, O South!He was thy truest friend, and greatest!He shunned thee in thy splendid shame,He stayed thee in thy voiceless sorrow;The day thou shalt forget his name,Fair South, can have no sadder morrow.The tears that fall from eyes unused,—The hands above his grave united,—The words of men whose lips he loosed,Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted,—Could he but know, and rest with this!Yet stay, through Death’s low-lying hollow,His one last foe’s insatiate hissOn that benignant shade would follow!Peace! while we shroud this man of menLet no unhallowed word be spoken!He will not answer thee again,His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken.Some holier cause, some vaster trustBeyond the veil, he doth inherit:O gently, Earth, receive his dust,And Heaven soothe his troubled spirit!
Earth, let thy softest mantle restOn this worn child to thee returning,Whose youth was nurtured at thy breast,Who loved thee with such tender yearning!He knew thy fields and woodland ways,And deemed thy humblest son his brother:—Asleep, beyond our blame or praise,We yield him back, O gentle Mother!
Earth, let thy softest mantle rest
On this worn child to thee returning,
Whose youth was nurtured at thy breast,
Who loved thee with such tender yearning!
He knew thy fields and woodland ways,
And deemed thy humblest son his brother:—
Asleep, beyond our blame or praise,
We yield him back, O gentle Mother!
Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill:Who has not read the life-long story?And dear we hold his fame, but stillThe man was dearer than his glory.And now to us are left aloneThe closet where his shadow lingers,The vacant chair,—that was a throne,—The pen, just fallen from his fingers.
Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill:
Who has not read the life-long story?
And dear we hold his fame, but still
The man was dearer than his glory.
And now to us are left alone
The closet where his shadow lingers,
The vacant chair,—that was a throne,—
The pen, just fallen from his fingers.
Wrath changed to kindness on that pen;Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey;One flash from out the cloud, and thenThe skies with smile and jest were sunny.Of hate he surely lacked the art,Who made his enemy his lover:O reverend head and Christian heart!Where now their like the round world over?
Wrath changed to kindness on that pen;
Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey;
One flash from out the cloud, and then
The skies with smile and jest were sunny.
Of hate he surely lacked the art,
Who made his enemy his lover:
O reverend head and Christian heart!
Where now their like the round world over?
He saw the goodness, not the taint,In many a poor, do-nothing creature,And gave to sinner and to saint,But kept his faith in human nature;Perchance he was not worldly-wise,Yet we who noted, standing nearer,The shrewd, kind twinkle in his eyes,For every weakness held him dearer.
He saw the goodness, not the taint,
In many a poor, do-nothing creature,
And gave to sinner and to saint,
But kept his faith in human nature;
Perchance he was not worldly-wise,
Yet we who noted, standing nearer,
The shrewd, kind twinkle in his eyes,
For every weakness held him dearer.
Alas that unto him who gaveSo much, so little should be given!Himself alone he might not saveOf all for whom his hands had striven.Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed:Men took, and passed, and left him lonely;—What marvel if, beneath his load,At times he craved—for justice only!
Alas that unto him who gave
So much, so little should be given!
Himself alone he might not save
Of all for whom his hands had striven.
Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed:
Men took, and passed, and left him lonely;—
What marvel if, beneath his load,
At times he craved—for justice only!
Yet thanklessness, the serpent’s tooth,His lofty purpose could not alter;Toil had no power to bend his youth,Or make his lusty manhood falter;From envy’s sling, from slander’s dart,That armored soul the body shielded,Till one dark sorrow chilled his heart,And then he bowed his head and yielded.
Yet thanklessness, the serpent’s tooth,
His lofty purpose could not alter;
Toil had no power to bend his youth,
Or make his lusty manhood falter;
From envy’s sling, from slander’s dart,
That armored soul the body shielded,
Till one dark sorrow chilled his heart,
And then he bowed his head and yielded.
Now, now, we measure at its worthThe gracious presence gone forever!The wrinkled East, that gave him birth,Laments with every laboring river;Wild moan the free winds of the WestFor him who gathered to her prairiesThe sons of men, and made each crestThe haunt of happy household fairies;
Now, now, we measure at its worth
The gracious presence gone forever!
The wrinkled East, that gave him birth,
Laments with every laboring river;
Wild moan the free winds of the West
For him who gathered to her prairies
The sons of men, and made each crest
The haunt of happy household fairies;
And anguish sits upon the mouthOf her who came to know him latest:His heart was ever thine, O South!He was thy truest friend, and greatest!He shunned thee in thy splendid shame,He stayed thee in thy voiceless sorrow;The day thou shalt forget his name,Fair South, can have no sadder morrow.
And anguish sits upon the mouth
Of her who came to know him latest:
His heart was ever thine, O South!
He was thy truest friend, and greatest!
He shunned thee in thy splendid shame,
He stayed thee in thy voiceless sorrow;
The day thou shalt forget his name,
Fair South, can have no sadder morrow.
The tears that fall from eyes unused,—The hands above his grave united,—The words of men whose lips he loosed,Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted,—Could he but know, and rest with this!Yet stay, through Death’s low-lying hollow,His one last foe’s insatiate hissOn that benignant shade would follow!
The tears that fall from eyes unused,—
The hands above his grave united,—
The words of men whose lips he loosed,
Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted,—
Could he but know, and rest with this!
Yet stay, through Death’s low-lying hollow,
His one last foe’s insatiate hiss
On that benignant shade would follow!
Peace! while we shroud this man of menLet no unhallowed word be spoken!He will not answer thee again,His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken.Some holier cause, some vaster trustBeyond the veil, he doth inherit:O gently, Earth, receive his dust,And Heaven soothe his troubled spirit!
Peace! while we shroud this man of men
Let no unhallowed word be spoken!
He will not answer thee again,
His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken.
Some holier cause, some vaster trust
Beyond the veil, he doth inherit:
O gently, Earth, receive his dust,
And Heaven soothe his troubled spirit!
December 3, 1872.