I.
Mine eyes beheld thee—but not nigh: mine ear,
Close to thy page, could feel the beat, beat, beat,
That told thy great, good heart: now strangers’ feet
Have borne thee out. Thee? Nay, I have thee here
Forever young; nor less that eye, so clear,
Beams brotherhood, nor can the years that fleet
Leave me more lonely. No hot tear—full meet
From widowed Friendship—drop I on thy bier.
Some earth-stained page mars oft fair Friendships’s book;
And happier I, who saw thro’ Fancy’s light
Kin only of the sacred singing race,
Blameless of all that mars familiar sight!—
Then wherefore should I weep, who skyward look,
And mark a god move Godward to his place?
II.
Perfume of eld, more sweet than all the scent
Of late-blown roses squandered on the air,
Sweetens the tawny forest of thy hair,
And there shall dwell till all the years be spent.
To thee war’s call with hint of song is blent,
And time sits easy on the brows of care;
Love lifts a white affirming hand to swear
Thee hero of thy heroes,—thou, who went
To the frore Past. Lo! in its eyes did dance
Reflection of a day within the wake
Of some unrisen, kindlier star; and thou
Didst cry: “Behold, with goodlier days the Now
Is great, as forests wave in seeds to break,
And countless thousands pulse in Love’s first glance!”
