Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By WilliamWinter667 I. H. B.
T
No more the brooding organ weeps,
And, cool and green, the turf is spread
On that lone grave where B
Gone—when the wave was at its crest!
And wayward Humor’s perfect flower
Is turned to darkness and to rest.
With torrid light of proud desire;
No more those fluent lips will teem
With Wit’s gay quip or Passion’s fire.
The dreams that Youth and Friendship know—
The frolic and the glee that made
The golden time of Long Ago.
And his the merriest of them all,—
That made this world so sweet a place,
Is cold and still, beneath the pall.
In human goodness puts its trust,
And his the keen, satiric touch
That shrivels falsehood into dust.
Embracing all, to cheer and bless;
And every grief that mortals share
Found pity in his tenderness.
Through piteous webs of human fate,
The motion of the sovereign law,
On which all tides of being wait.
His mirthful spirit, blithely poured,
In many a crescent frolic shone,—
The light of many a festal board.
With dull conceit of learning’s store;
But not for him were writ in vain
The statesman’s craft, the scholar’s lore.
In strife with many a valiant foe;
But Laughter winged his polished dart,
And Kindness tempered every blow.
Still for the common good he wrought,
And still enriched the passing day
With sheen of wit and sheaves of thought.
With wild-flowers grace his hallowed bed,
And guard with love his laurelled rest,
Forever with thy holiest dead!
Of thy long glory hast thou known
A being framed of smiles and tears,
Humor and force, so like thine own!
Or through thy pines the night-wind roll,
To soothe, in death’s transcendent dream,
A sweeter or a nobler soul!