John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Personal PoemsA Memorial
O
The solemn vista to the tomb
Must know henceforth another shadow,
And give another cypress room.
We walked, O friend, from childhood’s day;
And, looking back o’er fifty summers,
Our footprints track a common way.
To make the world within our reach
Somewhat the better for our living,
And gladder for our human speech.
The old beguiling song of fame,
But life to thee was warm and present,
And love was better than a name.
Thy genial nature fondly clung;
And so the shadow on the dial
Ran back and left thee always young.
Which, only to thyself unjust,
So overprized the worth of others,
And dwarfed thy own with self-distrust?
Of one who, seeking not his own,
Gave freely for the love of giving,
Nor reaped for self the harvest sown.
Of generous deeds and kindly words;
In thy large heart were fair guest-chambers,
Open to sunrise and the birds!
Life’s plastic newness into grace:
To make the boyish heart heroic,
And light with thought the maiden’s face.
With bended heads of mourning, stand
The living forms that owe their beauty
And fitness to thy shaping hand.
The noonday calm of heart and mind,
While I, who dreamed of thy remaining
To mourn me, linger still behind:
A debt of love still due from me,—
The vain remembrance of occasions,
Forever lost, of serving thee.
To join the silent funeral prayers,
But all that long sad day of summer
My tears of mourning dropped with theirs.
The birds forgot their merry trills:
All day I heard the pines lamenting
With thine upon thy homestead hills.
And green the meadowy lowlands be,
And green the old memorial beeches,
Name-carven in the woods of Lee!
Who thither turn their pilgrim feet,
In every mossy line recalling
A tender memory sadly sweet.
To know thee henceforth as thou art,
That all is well with thee forever
I trust the instincts of my heart.
Thine the green pastures, blossom-sown,
And smiles of saintly recognition,
As sweet and tender as thy own.
To meet us, but to thee we come;
With thee we never can be strangers,
And where thou art must still be home.