C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Edwin Booth
By William Winter (1836–1917)
From ‘Wanderers’
H
Across the dim sea-line,
And coldly on our aching sight
The solemn stars will shine.
All, all in mournful silence, save
For ocean’s distant roar,
Heard where the slow, regretful wave
Sobs on the lonely shore.
Our thoughts pursue his track,
What glorious sights the midnight air
Will proudly waft us back!
What golden words will flutter down
From many a peak of fame!
What glittering shapes of old renown
That cluster round his name!
Will darkly drift again,
Dream-like and vague, without a sound,
The spectre of the Dane;
And breaking hearts will be the wreath
For grief that knows no tear,
When shine on Cornwall’s storm-swept heath
The blazing eyes of Lear.
And fate’s avenging powers,
Will moody Richard’s haggard form
Pace through the twilight hours;
And wildly hurtling o’er the sky,
The red star of Macbeth—
Torn from the central arch on high—
Go down in dusky death!
His form of manly grace—
The noble brow, the honest eyes,
The sweetly patient face,
The loving heart, the stately mind
That, conquering every ill,
Through seas of trouble cast behind,
Was grandly steadfast still.
Though friends and hopes might fall,
His constant spirit, simply brave,
Would meet and suffer all;
Would calmly smile at fortune’s frown,
Supreme o’er gain or loss:
And he the worthiest wears the crown
That gently bore the cross!
That golden England knows!
Bloom sweetly round the wanderer’s way,
Thou royal English rose!
And, English hearts, (no need to tell
How truth itself endures!)
This soul of manhood treasure well,
Our love commits to yours!
Nor night can ever dim
The wreath of honors, pure and proud,
Our hearts have twined for him!
But bells of memory still shall chime,
And violets star the sod,
Till our last broken wave of time
Dies on the shores of God.