Yet what is there to say, Even on this proud day, This day of days, that hath not oft been said? What song is there to sing That hath not oft been sung? What laurel can we bring That ages have not hung A thousand times above their glorious dead? What crown to crown the living Is left us for our giving, That is not shaped to other brows That wore it long ago? Our very vows but echo vows Breathed centuries ago! Earth has no choral strain, No sweet or sad refrain, No lofty pæan swelling loud and clear, That Virgil did not know, Or Danté, wandering slow In mystic trances, did not pause to hear! When gods from high Olympus came To touch old Homer’s lips with flame, The morning stars together sung To teach their raptures to his tongue. For him the lonely ocean moaned; For him the mighty winds intoned Their deep-voiced chantings, and for him Sweet flower-bells pealed in forests dim. From earth and sea and sky he caught The spell of their divinest thought, While yet it blossomed fresh and new As Eden’s rosebuds wet with dew! Oh! to have lived when earth was young, With all its melodies unsung! The dome of heaven bent nearer then When gods and angels talked with men— When Song itself was newly born, The Incarnation of the Morn! But now, alas! all thought is old, All life is but a story told, And poet-tongues are manifold; And he is bold who tries to wake, Even for God or Country’s sake, In voice, or pen, or lute, or lyre, Sparks of the old Promethean fire!
III.
And yet—O Earth, thank God!—the soul of song Is as immortal as the eternal stars! O trembling heart! take courage and be strong. Hark! to a voice from yonder crystal bars:
“Did the roses blow last June? Do the stars still rise and set? And over the crests of the mountains Are the light clouds floating yet? Do the rivers run to the sea With a deep, resistless flow? Do the little birds sing north and south As the seasons come and go?
Are the hills as fair as of old? Are the skies as blue and far? Have you lost the pomp of the sunset, Or the light of the evening star? Has the glory gone from the morning? Do the wild winds wail no more? Is there now no thunder of billows Beating the storm-lashed shore?
Is Love a forgotten story? Is Passion a jester’s theme? Has Valor thrown down its armor? Is Honor an idle dream? Is there no pure trust in woman? No conquering faith in God? Are there no feet strong to follow In the paths the martyrs trod?
Did you find no hero graves When your violets bloomed last May— Prouder than those of Marathon, Or ‘old Platea’s day’? When your red and white and blue On the free winds fluttered out, Were there no strong hearts and voices To receive it with a shout? Oh! let the Earth grow old! And the burning stars grow cold! And, if you will, declare man’s story told! Yet, pure as faith is pure, And sure as death is sure, As long as love shall live, shall song endure!”
IV.
When, one by one, the stately, silent Years Glide like pale ghosts beyond our yearning sight, Vainly we stretch our arms to stay their flight, So soon, so swift they pass to endless night! We hardly learn to name them, To praise them or to blame them, To know their shadowy faces, Ere we see their empty places! Only once the glad Spring greets them; Only once fair Summer meets them; Only once the Autumn glory Tells for them its mystic story; Only once the Winter hoary Weaves for them its robes of light! Years leave their work half-done; like men, alas! With sheaves ungathered to their graves they pass, And are forgotten. What they strive to do Lives for a while in memory of a few; Then over all Oblivion’s waters flow— The Years are buried in the long ago! But when a Century dies, what room is there for tears? Rather in solemn exaltation let us come, With roll of drum (Not muffled as in woe), With blare of bugles, and the liquid flow Of silver clarions, and the long appeal Of the clear trumpets ringing peal on peal; With clash of bells, and hosts in proud array, To pay meet homage to its burial day! For its proud work is done. Its name is writ Where all the ages that come after it Shall read the eternal letters, blazoned high On the blue dome of the impartial sky. What ruthless fate can darken its renown, Or dim the lustre of its starry crown? On mountain-peaks of Time each Century stands alone; And each, for glory or for shame, hath reaped what it hath sown!