For the sound of his voice was music,
Dearer than any note
Shook from the strands of harp-strings,
Or poured from the bugle's throat.—
A voice of such various ranges,
His utterance rang from the height
Of every rapture, down to the sobs
Of every lost delight.
Though he knew Man's force and his purpose,
As strong as his strongest peers,
He knew, as well, the kindly heart,
And the tenderness of tears.
So is it the face we remember
Shall be always as a child's
That, grieved some way to the very soul,
Looks bravely up and smiles.
O brave it shall look, as it looked its last
On the little daughter's face—
Pictured only—against the wall,
In its old accustomed place—
Where the last gleam of the lamplight
Out of the midnight dim
Yielded its grace, and the earliest dawn
Gave it again to him.
IN DAYS TO COME
In days to come—whatever ache
Of age shall rack our bones, or quake
Our slackened thews—whatever grip
Rheumatic catch us i' the hip,—
We, each one, for the other's sake,
Will of our very wailings make
Such quips of song as well may shake
The spasm'd corners from the lip—
In days to come.
Ho! ho! how our old hearts shall rake
The past up!—how our dry eyes slake
Their sight upon the dewy drip
Of juicy-ripe companionship,
And blink stars from the blind opaque—
In days to come.