THE DEAD CENTURY
I.
Lo! we come Bearing the Century, cold and dumb! Folded above the mighty breast Lie the hands that have earned their rest; Hushed are the grandly speaking lips; Closed are the eyes in drear eclipse; And the sculptured limbs are deathly still, Responding not to the eager will, As we come Bearing the Century, cold and dumb!
II.
Lo! we wait Knocking here at the sepulchre’s gate! Souls of the ages passed away, A mightier joins your ranks to-day; Open your doors and give him room, Buried Centuries, in your tomb! For calmly under this heavy pall Sleepeth the kingliest of ye all, While we wait At the sepulchre’s awful gate!
III.
Yet—pause here, Bending low o’er the narrow bier! Pause ye awhile and let your thought Compass the work that he hath wrought; Look on his brow so scarred and worn; Think of the weight his hands have borne; Think of the fetters he hath broken, Of the mighty words his lips have spoken Who lies here Dead and cold on a narrow bier!
IV.
Ere he goes Silent and calm to his grand repose— While the Centuries in their tomb Crowd together to give him room, Let us think of the wondrous deeds Answering still to the world’s great needs, Answering still to the world’s wild prayer, He hath been first to do and dare! Ah! he goes Crowned with bays to his last repose.