The broad, fair fields of God he saw Beyond the bigot's narrow bound; The truths he moulded into law In Christ's beatitudes he found.
His state-craft was the Golden Rule, His right of vote a sacred trust; Clear, over threat and ridicule, All heard his challenge: "Is it just?"
And when the hour supreme had come, Not for himself a thought he gave; In that last pang of martyrdom, His care was for the half-freed slave.
Not vainly dusky hands upbore, In prayer, the passing soul to heaven Whose mercy to His suffering poor Was service to the Master given.
Long shall the good State's annals tell, Her children's children long be taught, How, praised or blamed, he guarded well The trust he neither shunned nor sought.
If for one moment turned thy face, O Mother, from thy son, not long He waited calmly in his place The sure remorse which follows wrong.
Forgiven be the State he loved The one brief lapse, the single blot; Forgotten be the stain removed, Her righted record shows it not!
The lifted sword above her shield With jealous care shall guard his fame; The pine-tree on her ancient field To all the winds shall speak his name.
The marble image of her son Her loving hands shall yearly crown, And from her pictured Pantheon His grand, majestic face look down.
O State so passing rich before, Who now shall doubt thy highest claim?
The world that counts thy jewels o'er Shall longest pause at Sumner's name!
1874.
THEIRS
I.
Fate summoned, in gray-bearded age, to act A history stranger than his written fact, Him who portrayed the splendor and the gloom Of that great hour when throne and altar fell With long death-groan which still is audible.
He, when around the walls of Paris rung The Prussian bugle like the blast of doom, And every ill which follows unblest war Maddened all France from Finistere to Var, The weight of fourscore from his shoulders flung, And guided Freedom in the path he saw Lead out of chaos into light and law, Peace, not imperial, but republican, And order pledged to all the Rights of Man.
II.
Death called him from a need as imminent As that from which the Silent William went When powers of evil, like the smiting seas On Holland's dikes, assailed her liberties.
Sadly, while yet in doubtful balance hung The weal and woe of France, the bells were rung For her lost leader. Paralyzed of will, Above his bier the hearts of men stood still.
Then, as if set to his dead lips, the horn Of Roland wound once more to rouse and warn, The old voice filled the air! His last brave word Not vainly France to all her boundaries stirred.
Strong as in life, he still for Freedom wrought, As the dead Cid at red Toloso fought.
1877.
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. AT THE UNVEILING OF HIS STATUE.
Among their graven shapes to whom Thy civic wreaths belong, O city of his love, make room For one whose gift was song.
Not his the soldier's sword to wield, Nor his the helm of state, Nor glory of the stricken field, Nor triumph of debate.
In common ways, with common men, He served his race and time As well as if his clerkly pen Had never danced to rhyme.
If, in the thronged and noisy mart, The Muses found their son, Could any say his tuneful art A duty left undone?
He toiled and sang; and year by year Men found their homes more sweet, And through a tenderer atmosphere Looked down the brick-walled street.
The Greek's wild onset gall Street knew; The Red King walked Broadway; And Alnwick Castle's roses blew From Palisades to Bay.
Fair City by the Sea! upraise His veil with reverent hands; And mingle with thy own the praise And pride of other lands.
Let Greece his fiery lyric breathe Above her hero-urns; And Scotland, with her holly, wreathe The flower he culled for Burns.
Oh, stately stand thy palace walls, Thy tall ships ride the seas; To-day thy poet's name recalls A prouder thought than these.
Not less thy pulse of trade shall beat, Nor less thy tall fleets swim, That shaded square and dusty street Are classic ground through him.
Alive, he loved, like all who sing, The echoes of his song; Too late the tardy meed we bring, The praise delayed so long.
Too late, alas! Of all who knew The living man, to-day Before his unveiled face, how few Make bare their locks of gray!
Our lips of praise must soon be dumb, Our grateful eyes be dim; O brothers of the days to come, Take tender charge of him!
New hands the wires of song may sweep, New voices challenge fame; But let no moss of years o'ercreep The lines of Halleck's name.
1877.
WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT.
Oh, well may Essex sit forlorn Beside her sea-blown shore; Her well beloved, her noblest born, Is hers in life no more!
No lapse of years can render less Her memory's sacred claim; No fountain of forgetfulness Can wet the lips of Fame.
A grief alike to wound and heal, A thought to soothe and pain, The sad, sweet pride that mothers feel To her must still remain.
Good men and true she has not lacked, And brave men yet shall be; The perfect flower, the crowning fact, Of all her years was he!
As Galahad pure, as Merlin sage, What worthier knight was found To grace in Arthur's golden age The fabled Table Round?
A voice, the battle's trumpet-note, To welcome and restore; A hand, that all unwilling smote, To heal and build once more;
A soul of fire, a tender heart Too warm for hate, he knew The generous victor's graceful part To sheathe the sword he drew.
When Earth, as if on evil dreams, Looks back upon her wars, And the white light of Christ outstreams From the red disk of Mars,
His fame who led the stormy van Of battle well may cease, But never that which crowns the man Whose victory was Peace.
Mourn, Essex, on thy sea-blown shore Thy beautiful and brave, Whose failing hand the olive bore, Whose dying lips forgave!