"Nothing in his life
Shakspeare.Became him like the leaving it."
What woe is this that hath cast o'er the land
Such a shade of sorrow? "What star hath fled
From the heavens above us? and why do men stand
Aghast, looking earthward, as if Earth were dead?
Go look in yon coffin; the answer is there,
Written plain in that white and immovable face;
And it darkens the sunlight and thickens the air,
And robs the bright world of its manifold grace.
The fire is gone out in those cavernous eyes,
Which flashed like a coal at the blast of his thought;
And those closed lips will part nevermore, though the world
For ages will ring with the lessons they taught.
Ay, well may'st thou mourn, like a Rachel, to-day,
Dear goddess of Freedom, and weep by his grave;
On thy altar he laid the first-fruits of his life;
To thee the best toil of his manhood he gave.
He looks not now as when, proudly erect,
On the rock of the stern old Pilgrim race,
He summoned up the ghost of the Past,
And talked with the Future face to face!
The words that fell from his lips were like drops
Of a thunder-cloud—large, heavy, and clear;
And they purged men's minds as the genial shower
Purges the misty atmosphere.
From the soil of his own loved New-England he sprang
When her acres were drenched with the blood of the brave;
And back to her bosom returning to-day,
With his honors full-blossomed, he sinks to the grave.
Never greater than when (as the sun of his life,
Sloping westward, grew large) humbly kissing the rod,
On the arms of the Angel of Faith and of Hope
He leaned for support, and went home to his God.