DEBORARH YORK by EDWARD NOYES POMEROY

All along this fair "Foreside"
Where her kindred lived and died
When the tide of time ran slow,
Pours the tide of travel now.

Here her lover wooed and won her,
When the dew of youth was on her;
Here she heard the Master calling
When the frosts of age were falling.

Here she learned the stirring story
Of her country's youth and glory;
Here began and ceased her work;
Here they buried Deborah York.

Near yon spireless country church—
You may find them if you search—
At the town's dividing bound
Are the marble and the mound.

All her years this side of heaven—
They were threescore and eleven—
Are, like songs of minstrels olden,
Golden verse with music golden.

Many children, many cares;
Many sorrows, many prayers;
Sweetly sad her sigh and laugh;
'Our Mother" her epitaph.

Now her children too are gone,
Sons and daughters, every one;
Some lie where I sit and ponder;
Three beneath the ocean yonder.

What is left of Deborah York?
What remains to praise her work?
Trouble made her losses plain;
Tell me, is there any gain?

Is the landscape fairer for us?
Bends the blue arch bluer o'er us?
Are yon flashing waves more bright
That their sheen was her delight?

Nay, ah nay, these scenes forget her
And the stars know not one letter
Of the legend, oft passed over,
On the headstone in the clover.

Yet her life was not in vain:
Angels did she entertain;
Though they came in human guise
They were angels in her eyes.

Children's children now revere her;
Duty's cumbered path is clearer;
Faltering faith obtains assurance
From her courage and endurance.

Many lives today inherit
Something of her affluent spirit,
This with increase to transmit
For the ages' benefit.

Since the golden bowl was broken,
Since the final words were spoken,
Many a knave has ceased to plot,
Many a hero been forgot.

Lips, whose speech our own controlled;
Heart, that did our hearts enfold;
Presence, gracious in her sway;
What and where art thou today?

Pride and pomp will quickly pass;
Honor soon is tarnished brass;
Fame becomes a tasteless crust;
Dust returns again to dust;

But afar, in highest Heaven,
Whiter now than star-dust driven,
Sainthood's circlet on thy brow,
Deborah York, a queen art thou.

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