Personal Poems II, vol 4, part 2 | Page 7

shall fall in sunlit rain,

Writing the grave with flowers: "Arisen again!"
1860.
A MEMORIAL
Moses Austin Cartland, a dear friend and relation, who led a faithful
life as a teacher and died in the summer of 1863.
Oh, thicker, deeper, darker growing,
The solemn vista to the tomb

Must know henceforth another shadow,
And give another cypress
room.
In love surpassing that of brothers,
We walked, O friend, from
childhood's day;
And, looking back o'er fifty summers,
Our
footprints track a common way.
One in our faith, and one our longing
To make the world within our
reach
Somewhat the better for our living,
And gladder for our
human speech.
Thou heard'st with me the far-off voices,
The old beguiling song of
fame,
But life to thee was warm and present,
And love was better
than a name.
To homely joys and loves and friendships
Thy genial nature fondly
clung;
And so the shadow on the dial
Ran back and left thee always
young.
And who could blame the generous weakness
Which, only to thyself
unjust,
So overprized the worth of others,
And dwarfed thy own

with self-distrust?
All hearts grew warmer in the presence
Of one who, seeking not his
own,
Gave freely for the love of giving,
Nor reaped for self the
harvest sown.
Thy greeting smile was pledge and prelude
Of generous deeds and
kindly words;
In thy large heart were fair guest-chambers,
Open to
sunrise and the birds;
The task was thine to mould and fashion
Life's plastic newness into
grace
To make the boyish heart heroic,
And light with thought the
maiden's face.
O'er all the land, in town and prairie,
With bended heads of mourning,
stand
The living forms that owe their beauty
And fitness to thy
shaping hand.
Thy call has come in ripened manhood,
The noonday calm of heart
and mind,
While I, who dreamed of thy remaining
To mourn me,
linger still behind,
Live on, to own, with self-upbraiding,
A debt of love still due from
me,--
The vain remembrance of occasions,
Forever lost, of serving
thee.
It was not mine among thy kindred
To join the silent funeral prayers,

But all that long sad day of summer
My tears of mourning dropped
with theirs.
All day the sea-waves sobbed with sorrow,
The birds forgot their
merry trills
All day I heard the pines lamenting
With thine upon thy
homestead hills.
Green be those hillside pines forever,
And green the meadowy
lowlands be,
And green the old memorial beeches,
Name-carven in

the woods of Lee.
Still let them greet thy life companions
Who thither turn their pilgrim
feet,
In every mossy line recalling
A tender memory sadly sweet.
O friend! if thought and sense avail not
To know thee henceforth as
thou art,
That all is well with thee forever
I trust the instincts of my
heart.
Thine be the quiet habitations,
Thine the green pastures,
blossom-sown,
And smiles of saintly recognition,
As sweet and
tender as thy own.
Thou com'st not from the hush and shadow
To meet us, but to thee
we come,
With thee we never can be strangers,
And where thou art
must still be home.
1863.
BRYANT ON HIS BIRTHDAY
Mr. Bryant's seventieth birthday, November 3, 1864, was celebrated by
a festival to which these verses were sent.
We praise not now the poet's art,
The rounded beauty of his song;

Who weighs him from his life apart
Must do his nobler nature wrong.
Not for the eye, familiar grown
With charms to common sight denied,

The marvellous gift he shares alone
With him who walked on
Rydal-side;
Not for rapt hymn nor woodland lay,
Too grave for smiles, too sweet
for tears;
We speak his praise who wears to-day
The glory of his
seventy years.
When Peace brings Freedom in her train,
Let happy lips his songs
rehearse;
His life is now his noblest strain,
His manhood better than
his verse!

Thank God! his hand on Nature's keys
Its cunning keeps at life's full
span;
But, dimmed and dwarfed, in times like these,
The poet seems
beside the man!
So be it! let the garlands die,
The singer's wreath, the painter's meed,

Let our names perish, if thereby
Our country may be saved and
freed!
1864.
THOMAS STARR KING
Published originally as a prelude to the posthumous volume of
selections edited by Richard Frothingham.
The great work laid upon his twoscore years
Is done, and well done.
If we drop our tears,
Who loved him as few men were ever loved,

We mourn no blighted hope nor broken plan
With him whose life
stands rounded and approved
In the full growth and stature of a man.

Mingle, O bells, along the Western slope,
With your deep toll a
sound of faith and hope!
Wave cheerily still, O banner, half-way
down,
From thousand-masted bay and steepled town!
Let the strong
organ with its loftiest swell
Lift the proud sorrow of the land, and tell

That the brave sower saw his ripened grain.
O East and West! O
morn and sunset twain
No more forever!--has he lived in vain
Who,
priest of Freedom, made ye one, and told
Your bridal service from his
lips of gold?
1864.
LINES ON A FLY-LEAF.
I need not ask thee, for my sake,
To read a book which well may
make
Its way by native force of wit
Without my manual sign