James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
February 16Elisha Kent Kane
By George H. Boker (18231890)
O, M
With him who slumbers here below;
From thy cold Arctic brow he won
A glory purer than thy snow.
The dying hero; for his eye
The tropic Spring’s full splendors burst,—
“In vain!” a thousand voices cry.
Forsook me when the people cried;
Naught but the grief that fills my heart,
And memories of my friend, abide.
Beneath a cold autumnal rain;
He wrung my hand, he stayed my feet
With “Friend, we shall not meet again.”
He smiled; he left me; all was o’er.
How much for my poor laugh I’d give!—
How much to see him smile once more!
That sorrow is an humble thing,
That I should sing his praise instead,
And strike it on a higher string.
And follow where his fame has flown;
To the whole world belongs his praise,
His friendship was to me alone.
That I should make his glory dim,
And hear a bashful whisper say,
“I praise myself in praising him.”
His long, long funeral march, resign
To me the right to lift this cry,
And part the sorrow that is thine.
Forgive this song of little worth!
My eloquence is but a tear,
I cannot, would not rise from earth.
The link that held the jewel lost,—
I pray you give me leave to stand
Amid you, from the sorrowing host.
We’ll hark for echoes from afar;
Where’er our country’s flag ’s unfurled
His name shall shine in every star.
Our hero’s memory. Let us move
A little from the world to weep,
And for our portion take his love.