ODE:
ON THE DEATH OF A VERY INTIMATE FRIEND, A YOUNG SURGEON, WHO DIED FROM FEVER, AFTER ATTENDING A PATIENT.
'Tis sad indeed to chant a dirge of gloom—
To weave the cypress for a youthful brow:
To moan a requiem o'er an early tomb,
And sing in sorrow as I'm singing now.
While men raise mausoleums to die brave—
With flimsy flatt'ries gilded tombs besmear—
We need no banner o'er our Brother's grave
To tell what wealth of worth lies buried there.
Gone! and the word re-echoes with a sound
Mournful as muffled bells upon the wind;
Sad in its influence on all around—
Telling of griefs that still remain behind.
A thousand hearts may throb with tender swell—
Though every soul in deepest sorrow grieves,
How much he was beloved they only tell;
But who shall gauge the yawning breach he leaves?
Dark is the social world in which he moved—
Lending his aid unmindful of the cost.
Stilled is the heart the sternest 'mongst us loved;
Dim is the lustrous jewel we have lost.
For souls like his, so tender and so great,
Are pearls that stud the earth like stars the sky:
Above—the password at celestial gate;
Below—the germ of immortality.
Gone! Just as life was breaking, full of hope—
Clothed in the gorgeous beauty of its morn;
Free in Ambition's ever-widening scope,
A pictured prospect exquisitely drawn.
As void of self as angels are of sin,
What sweet anticipations stirred his brain:
What heights for others would he strive to win;
What little for himself he'd seek to gain.
But while the world was bathed in golden light;
While beauty breathed from every opening flower;
While streamlets danced along with gay delight;
While mellow music filled each songful bower;
With heart-warm friends whose love ran brimming o'er
For him who, full of life, stood with them then;
In such an hour Death led him from the shore;
And gone the worth we ne'er may know again.