If that glad song had ebbed away,
Which, rippling on through smiles and tears,
Has bathed with showers of diamond spray
The rosy fields of seventy years, —
If that sweet voice were hushed to-day,
What should we say?
At first we thought him but a jest,
A ray of laughter, quick to fade;
We did not dream how richly blest
In his pure life our lives were made,
Till soon the aureole shone, confest,
Upon his crest.
When violets fade the roses blow;
When laughter dies the passions wake:
His royal song that slept below,
Like Arthur's sword beneath the lake,
Long since has flashed its fiery glow
O'er all we know.
That song has poured its sacred light
On crimson flags in freedom's van,
And blessed their serried ranks who fight
Life's battle here for truth and man, —
An oriflamme, to cheer the right,
Through darkest night!
That song has flecked with rosy gold
The sails that fade o'er fancy's sea;
Relumed the storied days of old;
Presaged the glorious life to be;
And many a sorrowing heart consoled
In grief untold.
When, shattered on the loftiest steep
The statesman's glory ever found,
That heart, so like the boundless deep,
Broke, in the deep no heart can bound,
How did his dirge of sorrow weep
O'er W EBSTER'S sleep!
How sweetly did his spirit pour
The strains that make the tear-drops start,
When, on the bleak New England shore,
With Tara's harp and Erin's heart,
He thrilled us to the bosom's core
With thoughts of M OORE !
The shamrock, green on Liffey's side,
The lichen 'neath New England snows,
White daisies of the fields of Clyde,
Twined ardent round old Albion's rose,
Bloom in his verse, as blooms the bride,
With love and pride.
The silken tress, the mantling wine,
Red roses, summer's whispering leaves,
The lips that kiss, the hands that twine,
The heart that loves, the heart that grieves, —
They all have found a deathless shrine
In his rich line!
Ah well, that voice can charm us yet,
And still that shining tide of song,
Beneath a sun not soon to set,
In golden music flows along.
With dew of joy our eyes are wet —
Not of regret.
For still, as comes the festal day,
In many a temple, far and near,
The words that all have longed to say,
The words that all are proud to hear,
Fall from his lips, with conquering sway,
Or grave or gay.
No moment this for passion's heat,
Nor mine the voice to give it scope,
When love, and fame, and beauty meet
To crown their Memory and their Hope!
I cast white lilies, cool and sweet,
Here at his feet.
True bard, true soul, true man, true friend!
Ah, gently on that reverend head
Ye snows of wintry age descend,
Ye shades of mortal night be shed!
Peace guide and guard him to the end,
And love defend!
Which, rippling on through smiles and tears,
Has bathed with showers of diamond spray
The rosy fields of seventy years, —
If that sweet voice were hushed to-day,
What should we say?
At first we thought him but a jest,
A ray of laughter, quick to fade;
We did not dream how richly blest
In his pure life our lives were made,
Till soon the aureole shone, confest,
Upon his crest.
When violets fade the roses blow;
When laughter dies the passions wake:
His royal song that slept below,
Like Arthur's sword beneath the lake,
Long since has flashed its fiery glow
O'er all we know.
That song has poured its sacred light
On crimson flags in freedom's van,
And blessed their serried ranks who fight
Life's battle here for truth and man, —
An oriflamme, to cheer the right,
Through darkest night!
That song has flecked with rosy gold
The sails that fade o'er fancy's sea;
Relumed the storied days of old;
Presaged the glorious life to be;
And many a sorrowing heart consoled
In grief untold.
When, shattered on the loftiest steep
The statesman's glory ever found,
That heart, so like the boundless deep,
Broke, in the deep no heart can bound,
How did his dirge of sorrow weep
O'er W EBSTER'S sleep!
How sweetly did his spirit pour
The strains that make the tear-drops start,
When, on the bleak New England shore,
With Tara's harp and Erin's heart,
He thrilled us to the bosom's core
With thoughts of M OORE !
The shamrock, green on Liffey's side,
The lichen 'neath New England snows,
White daisies of the fields of Clyde,
Twined ardent round old Albion's rose,
Bloom in his verse, as blooms the bride,
With love and pride.
The silken tress, the mantling wine,
Red roses, summer's whispering leaves,
The lips that kiss, the hands that twine,
The heart that loves, the heart that grieves, —
They all have found a deathless shrine
In his rich line!
Ah well, that voice can charm us yet,
And still that shining tide of song,
Beneath a sun not soon to set,
In golden music flows along.
With dew of joy our eyes are wet —
Not of regret.
For still, as comes the festal day,
In many a temple, far and near,
The words that all have longed to say,
The words that all are proud to hear,
Fall from his lips, with conquering sway,
Or grave or gay.
No moment this for passion's heat,
Nor mine the voice to give it scope,
When love, and fame, and beauty meet
To crown their Memory and their Hope!
I cast white lilies, cool and sweet,
Here at his feet.
True bard, true soul, true man, true friend!
Ah, gently on that reverend head
Ye snows of wintry age descend,
Ye shades of mortal night be shed!
Peace guide and guard him to the end,
And love defend!