His life's expense III. Hath won for him coeval youth With the immaculate prime of Truth ; At living on, and wake and eat and sleep, (A poor leaf-shadow on a brook, whose play We bide our chance, Unhappy, and make terms with Fate He leads for aye the advance, Hope's forlorn-hopes that plant the desperate good Cleared at a bound, he flashes o'er the fight, I write of one, While with dim eyes I think of three; Ah, when the fight is won, Dear Land, whom triflers now make bold to scorn, Flame in thy sky, how braver breathe thy air, 1863. ON BOARD THE '76. WRITTEN FOR MR. BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. OUR ship lay tumbling in an angry sea, 291 Her rudder gone, her main-mast o'er the side; We lay, awaiting morn. Awaiting morn, such morn as mocks despair? Not sullener than we. Morn came at last to peer into our woe, When lo, a sail! Now surely help was nigh; The red cross flames aloft, Christ's pledge; but no, Her black guns grinning hate, she rushes by And hails us :-"Gains the leak! Ay, so we thought! Sink, then, with curses fraught!" I leaned against my gun still angry-hot, And my lids tingled with the tears held back; There our foe wallowed, like a wounded brute Some, faintly loyal, felt their pulses lag With the slow beat that doubts and then despairs; Some, caitiff, would have struck the starry flag That knits us with our past, and makes us heirs Of deeds high-hearted as were ever done 'Neath the all-seeing sun. But there was one, the Singer of our crew, Upon whose head Age waved his peaceful sign, Watched, charged with lightnings yet. The voices of the hills did his obey; The torrents flashed and tumbled in his song; Of dateless woods, or where we heard the calm But now he sang of faith to things unseen, Of freedom's birthright given to us in trust; And words of doughty cheer he spoke between, That made all earthly fortune seem as dust, Matched with that duty, old as Time and new, Of being brave and true. We, listening, learned what makes the might of words,— His voice rammed home our cannon, edged our swords, In our dark hours he manned our guns again; Remanned ourselves from his own manhood's store; Pride, honour, country, throbbed through all his strain ; And shall we praise? God's praise was his before; And on our futile laurels he looks down, Himself our bravest crown. ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION. JULY 21, 1865. WEAK-WINGED is song, I. Nor aims at that clear-ethered height Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse II. To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes back 피 No science peddling with the names of things, Far from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits, With that clear fame whose memory sings In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates : Of thy diviner mood, That could thy sons entice From happy homes and toils, the fruitful nest But rather far than stern device The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood The VERITAS that lurks beneath Life of whate'er makes life worth living, One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving. III. Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. Many with crossed hands sighed for her; So loved her that they died for her, Their higher instinct knew Those love her best who to themselves are true, Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her. Breathes its awakening breath Into the lifeless creed, They saw her plumed and mailed, With sweet stern face unveiled, And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death. IV. Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides What is there that abides To make the next age better for the last? Something to live for here that shall outlive us? Than such as flows and ebbs with Fortune's fickle moon? The little that we see From doubt is never free; Is but half-nobly true; With our laborious hiving What men call treasure, and the gods call dross, Only secure in every one's conniving, A long account of nothings paid with loss, Something that leaps life's narrow bars Our earthly dulness with the beams of stars, With light from fountains elder than the Day; A gladness fed with secret tears, A vexing, forward-reaching sense Which haunts the soul and will not let it be, Still glimmering from the heights of undegenerate years. V. Whither leads the path To ampler fates that leads? |