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Oh, for that spirit meek and mild,
Derided, spurned, yet uncomplaining—
By man deserted and reviled,
Yet faithful to its trust remaining.
Still prompt and resolute to save
From scourge and chain the hunted slave!
Unwavering in the Truth's defence,
Even where the fires of Hate are burning,
Th' unquailing eye of innocence
Alone up th' oppressor turning!
Oh—loved of thousands! to thy grave,
Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee!
The poor man and the rescued slave
Wept as the broken earth closed o'er thee—
And grateful tears, like summer rain,
Quickened its dying grass again!
And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine,
Shall come, the outcast and the lowly,
Of gentle deeds and words of thine,
Recalling memories sweet and holy!
Oh for the death the righteous die!
An end, like Autumn's day declining,
On human hearts, as on the sky,
With holier, tenderer beauty shining:
As to the parting soul were given
The radiance of an opening heaven!
As if that pure and blessed light,
From off th' Eternal altar flowing,
Were bathing in its upward flight,
The spirit to its worship going!
