A PLAINTIVE monotone of pain Sighs through our land, bereft to-day, A dissonance within the strain So lately set to measures gay. We mourn for one too early lost From life and love and labors high,— Gone, when his country prized him most, And dead beneath a foreign sky. From Norway's shadowy groves of pine, From far Palmyra's ruins gray, From cloud-capped Alp and Apennine, From ocean isle and rock-girt bay, Come notes to swell the tearful rune— Which trees and winds and surges blend— For him, with pilgrim staff and shoon, Who made each leaf and flower a friend. His was the poet's heaven-born fire, And his the harp of troubadour; With hand of strength he swept the lyre, The master's touch, so swift and sure. No stain obscured his well-earned fame; His manhood's honor whitely shone; And ever, as we spoke his name, We proudly thought "He is our own." A youth, he sought with eager hope The busy city's crowded ways. What doors before his feet should ope! What dreams grow real at his gaze! The "Open Sesame" he tried Had magic in it as of old; The world is hard, the world is wide, But toil and truth possess its gold. To-day the Muses veil their eyes, As, hushed around that laurelled brow, The brave, the beautiful, the wise, In stress of deep bereavement bow; But, in Valhalla's stately seats, The glad immortals haste to give Such welcome as he only meets Whose royal work shall ever live. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WISE WOMAN by LOUIS UNTERMEYER A SERMON AT CLEVEDON; GOOD FRIDAY by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN VISIONS: 5 by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) THE BAT by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON KEENAN'S CHARGE by GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP THE SUN'S TRAVELS by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE RAZOR-SELLER by JOHN WOLCOTT LINES WRITTEN IN A CITY COMPOSING-ROOM by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |