IN MEMORY OF HENRY WOODFIN GRADY.
From the “West Shore” Portland, Oregon.
I.
AMID the wrecks of private fortunes and
The fall of commonwealths, he saw arise
A stricken people, and, with mournful eyes,
Beheld the smoke of war bedim their land,
And in its folds the fragments of a band
Erst bound, as by grim Fate, to exercise
Their judgments in the wrong and sacrifice
Against the measures Providence had planned.
Unconquered still, he saw the Southern folk,
Though awed and vanquished by the deadly jar
Of war’s deep thunder belching forth, “Ye must!”
In love this Master sought to lift the yoke
Of ignorance from the Southland, and to star
Its night with those same stars trailed in its dust!
II.
Unto the North he, as a brother, came,
And in his heart the great warm South he brought,
And as he stood and oped his mouth he wrought
The miracle of setting hearts aflame,
That leaped to crown him orator of fame,
Since in his own emboldened hand he’d caught
The golden chain of love, by many sought,
To bind our Union something more than name.
But hark! The while his eloquence did charm
The Nation’s ear, the lightnings flashed along
The wires the weeping news, “He is no more!”
Brave seer! Thou didst both North and South disarm!
Leap, lightnings, from your wires, the clouds among,
And flash his eulogy the heavens o’er!
Lee Fairchild.
Seattle, January 14, 1890.
A SOUTHERN CHRISTMAS DAY.
Paraphrased from Henry W. Grady’s Editorial.
NO man or woman living now
Shall e’er again behold
A Christmas day so royal clad,
In robes of purpled gold,
As yesterday sank down to rest,
In perfect, rounded triumph in the West.
A winter day it was—yet shot
With sunshine to the core—
Enchantment’s spell filled all the scene
With power unknown before—
And he who walked abroad could feel
Its subtle mast’ry o’er him softly steal.
Its beauty prodigal he saw—
He breathed elixir pure—
Twas bliss to strive with reaching hand
Its rapture to secure,
And bathe with open fingers where
The waves of warmth and freshness pulsed the air.
The hum of bees but underrode
The whistling wings outspread
Of wild geese, flying through the sky,
As Southwardly they sped—
While embered pale, in drowsy grates,
The fires slept lightly, as when life abates.
And people, marveling, out of doors,
Watched in sweet amaze
The soft winds’ wooing of delight,
Upon this day of days—
Their wooing of the roses fair—
Their kissing lilies, with a lover’s air.
God’s benediction, with the day,
Slow dropping from the skies,
Came down the waiting earth to bless,
And give it glad surprise—
His smile, its light—a radiant flood,
That upward bore the prayer of gratitude.
And through and through its stillness all—
And through its beauty too—
To every heart came mute appeal,
To live a life more true—
And every soul invoking then,
With promise—“Peace on earth—good will to men.”
N.C. Thompson.