| |
| THE DIRGE is sung, the ritual said, | |
| No more the brooding organ weeps, | |
| And, cool and green, the turf is spread | |
| On that lone grave where BROMLEY sleeps. | |
| |
| Gone—in his ripe, meridian hour! | 5 |
| Gone—when the wave was at its crest! | |
| And wayward Humor’s perfect flower | |
| Is turned to darkness and to rest. | |
| |
| No more those honest eyes will beam | |
| With torrid light of proud desire; | 10 |
| No more those fluent lips will teem | |
| With Wit’s gay quip or Passion’s fire. | |
| |
| Forever gone! And with him fade | |
| The dreams that Youth and Friendship know— | |
| The frolic and the glee that made | 15 |
| The golden time of Long Ago. | |
| |
| The golden time! Ah, many a face,— | |
| And his the merriest of them all,— | |
| That made this world so sweet a place, | |
| Is cold and still, beneath the pall. | 20 |
| |
| His was the heart that over-much | |
| In human goodness puts its trust, | |
| And his the keen, satiric touch | |
| That shrivels falsehood into dust. | |
| |
| His love was like the liberal air,— | 25 |
| Embracing all, to cheer and bless; | |
| And every grief that mortals share | |
| Found pity in his tenderness. | |
| |
| His subtle vision deeply saw, | |
| Through piteous webs of human fate, | 30 |
| The motion of the sovereign law, | |
| On which all tides of being wait. | |
| |
| No sad recluse, no lettered drone, | |
| His mirthful spirit, blithely poured, | |
| In many a crescent frolic shone,— | 35 |
| The light of many a festal board. | |
| |
| No pompous pedant, did he feign, | |
| With dull conceit of learning’s store; | |
| But not for him were writ in vain | |
| The statesman’s craft, the scholar’s lore. | 40 |
| |
| Fierce for the right, he bore his part | |
| In strife with many a valiant foe; | |
| But Laughter winged his polished dart, | |
| And Kindness tempered every blow. | |
| |
| No selfish purpose marked his way; | 45 |
| Still for the common good he wrought, | |
| And still enriched the passing day | |
| With sheen of wit and sheaves of thought. | |
| |
| Shrine him, New-England, in thy breast! | |
| With wild-flowers grace his hallowed bed, | 50 |
| And guard with love his laurelled rest, | |
| Forever with thy holiest dead! | |
| |
| For not in all the teeming years | |
| Of thy long glory hast thou known | |
| A being framed of smiles and tears, | 55 |
| Humor and force, so like thine own! | |
| |
| And never did thy asters gleam, | |
| Or through thy pines the night-wind roll, | |
| To soothe, in death’s transcendent dream, | |
| A sweeter or a nobler soul! | 60 |
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