Yet on this day of doom a strange new splendor
Shed its celestial light on all men's eyes:
Flower of the hero-soul,—consummate, tender,—
That from the tower of flame sprang to the eternal skies.
LOWELL
I
From the shade of the elms that murmured above thy birth
And the pines that sheltered thy life and shadowed the end,
'Neath the white-blue skies thee to thy rest we bore,—
'Neath the summer skies thou didst love, 'mid the songs of thy birds,
By thy childhood's stream, 'neath the grass and the flowers thou knewest,
Near the grave of the singer whose name with thine own is enlaureled,
By the side of the brave who live in thy deathless song,—
Here all that was mortal of thee we left, with our tears,
With our love, and our grief that could not be quenched or abated;
For even the part that was mortal, sweet friend and companion!
That face, and that figure of beauty, and flashing eye
Which in youth shone forth like a god's 'mid lesser men,
And in gray-haired, strenuous age still glowed and lustered,—
These, too, were dear to us,—blame us not, soaring spirit!
These, too, were dear, and now we shall never behold them,
Nor ever shall feel the quick clasp of thy welcoming hand.
