Classic Poem

In this sad age when noble deaths abound,
When heroes fall while youthful hopes are high,
'Twas not thy fate on victory's field to die
To be by honour's oaken garland crowned.
Insidious fever did thy powers confound,
And whilst thy parents stood lamenting by,
Thou from thy home wast carried forth, to lie
Where only flowers, not bloodshed, paint the ground.
But no! thou yet wast whelmed 'neath glory's tide;
A battle-picture thou wouldst fain pourtray,
Memorial of thy country's warriors tried.
Thou, dying, seem'dst to hear the battle-cry;
Around thee men, steeds, weapons joined the fray,
And thus 'twas thine 'mid battle-scenes to die.
Thou wouldst but high and worthy things pourtray,
Despising both the trivial and untrue;
And thus thy pencil's skill would fain renew
The Nibelungen Lied — that wondrous lay.
Now Hagen's greatness would thy spirit sway,
Now fierce Kriemhilde stood before thy view;
But most that gentleness thy liking drew
Which Sifrid brave and Giselher display.
With justice didst thou Giselher bemoan
Who fell, in youth's fair prime, in hottest fight;
Like his, an early death hath proved thine own.
Was then thy spirit so completely won
By that strange lay, where fate's mysterious might
Calls each to die, that death thou couldst not shun?

How well that solemn, tranquil picture throws
A meaning o'er thine artist-life's glad end,
Where Abraham and all that with him wend
Survey the land which God on them bestows!
There o'er their pilgrim-staves they forward bend,
While cliff and wood their figures half enclose;
And underneath them, stretched in fair repose,
Broad acres, filled with corn and vines, extend.
So likewise, O departed soul, hast thou
This earthly life's rough wilderness passed o'er
And reached the happy goal where pilgrims rest:
Yea, through the hollow sepulchre's dark door
Upon the happy fields thou gazest now,
The heavenly Promised Land, by saints possessed.