Classic Poem

I

If this were all, if lost with those that perished, —
O'er whom these winds of summer softly sigh, —
Our hopes were buried with the hearts we cherished,
And life were nothing but to toil and die;

What sadder scene than this that blooms before us,
With Nature's garlands decked, could earth display?
What mockery were this heaven that's bending o'er us,
Glad with the sunshine of the glittering May!

But here, where late with naked branches striving, —
Wet with the icy tears of wintry grief, —
Across this lonely field of sorrow driving
The angry tempest whirled the withered leaf;

Now swings the pendant bloom, now opening roses
Woo the soft zephyrs with their balmy breath;
Boughs wave, birds sing, and silver mist reposes,
In bliss, above these emerald waves of death.

And sure the Power, that out of desolation
Can thus the arid wastes of earth relume,
Ne'er meant the crown of all its vast creation
One hour of woe, and then the eternal tomb!

But, were this all, — were hope with being ended,
In these dark cells that shrine our sacred dead,
Were all our prayers and tears in vain expended,
Our passion, labor, faith forever sped;

Who would not yet, — all selfish impulse spurning, —
Live for mankind, and triumph with the just!
Who, from the field of honor backward turning,
Would trail a sullied ensign in the dust!

Though fate were cruel, human will undaunted,
Supreme o'er torture, regnant over time,
Can spurn the bitterest foe that ever vaunted
This mortal frailty which were Nature's crime!

It may be, — every generous trust forbidden, —
That, while these beauteous orbs of ruin roll,
From the dark sleep in which the dead are hidden
A flower can wake, but not the human soul:

Yet, sweet is every love and every longing;
Yet shines the dream of heaven in childhood's eyes;
And troops of angel phantoms still come thronging
To fancy's vision, in the twilight skies:

Yet stirs the heart with nameless, vague emotion,
When moonlight sleeps upon the summer sea;
Yet forest depths and lonely wastes of ocean
And mountain voices set the spirit free:

And, borne on wings of glorious endeavor,
Man yet can soar above his baser clay, —
Throned in high deeds, forever and forever,
That cannot die, and will not pass away!

II

High were their deeds, o'er whom our hearts are weeping!
Safe bides their fame, in all men's love and praise
Hallowed the mould in which their dust is sleeping,
And sweet the memory that has crowned their days!

Ah, once for them young Hope unveiled her splendor!
Ah, once for them time ran in golden sands!
They knew affection's accents, soft and tender,
They felt the touch of loving lips and hands.

They saw the awful face of sovereign beauty;
White arms of proud ambition lured them on;
But in their hearts breathed low the voice of duty, —
They heard it, and they answered: they are gone.

The midnight wind was cold upon their faces, —
Pale in the silence of the crimson sod;
But who shall paint through what resplendent spaces
Their souls sprang upward to the light of God!

No more, for them, in summer twilight's glimmer,
Shall distant music smite the chords of pain:
No more, as evening shades grow slowly dimmer,
Shall wandering fragrance pierce the tortured brain.

No more of lingering doubt, nor stern denial,
Nor baffled toil, nor slow, embittering strife, —
But now, at once, the crown of earthly trial,
The long, long summer of eternal life!

Calm-fronted, staunch, expectant, and unshaken,
Who dares the worst that any fate can bring, —
For him, by iron purpose ne'er forsaken,
The grave no victory has, and death no sting;

We can but serve: some, by the instant giving
Of all that hand could do or heart could prize!
Some, by a meek, laborious, patient living,
A daily toil, an hourly sacrifice.

We falter on, now hoping, now despairing,
And hour by hour drag out life's little span:
They passed, in one tremendous deed of daring, —
They lived for honor, and they died for man!

Pile thick the amaranth and the myrtle o'er them, —
For whom our laurell'd banners flash and flow, —
Roses that love, and pansies that deplore them,
And lilies, weeping from their hearts of snow.

Breathe low, ye murmuring pines, ye whispering grasses!
Ye dews of summer night fall softly here!
Be sorrow's sigh in every breeze that passes,
And every rain-drop be a mourner's tear!

And O, ye stars, ye holy lights that cumber
The deep of heaven, pour benedictions down!
Shed your sweet incense on this sacred slumber —
Bright as our love, and pure as their renown!

Breathe our farewell! ah, very gently breathe it, —
Like ocean's murmur in the coral shell,
And tender as the sea-flowers that enwreathe it, —
For ever and for evermore, Farewell!