| |
| HIS way in farming all men knew; | |
| Way wide, forecasting, free, | |
| A liberal tilth that made the tiller poor. | |
| That huge Websterian plough what furrows drew | |
| Through fallows fattened from the barren sea! | 5 |
| Yoked to that plough and matched for mighty size, | |
| What oxen moved!—in progress equal, sure, | |
| Unconscious of resistance, as of force | |
| Not finite, elemental, like his own, | |
| Taking its way with unimpeded course. | 10 |
| He loved to look into their meek brown eyes, | |
| That with a light of love half human shone | |
| Calmly on him from out the ample front, | |
| While, with a kind of mutual, wise, | |
| Mute recognition of some kin, | 15 |
| Superior to surprise, | |
| And schooled by immemorial wont, | |
| They seemed to say, We let him in, | |
| He is of us, he is, by natural dower, | |
| One in our brotherhood of great and peaceful power. | 20 |
| |
| So, when he came to die | |
| At Marshfield by the sea, | |
| And now the end is nigh, | |
| Up from the pleasant lea | |
| Move his dumb friends in solemn, slow, | 25 |
| Funereal procession, and before | |
| Their master’s door | |
| In melancholy file compassionately go; | |
| He will be glad to see his trusty friends once more. | |
| Now let him look a look that shall suffice, | 30 |
| Lo, let the dying man | |
| Take all the peace he can | |
| From those large tranquil brows and deep soft eyes. | |
| Rest it will be to him, | |
| Before his eyes grow dim, | 35 |
| To bathe his aged eyes in one deep gaze | |
| Commingled with old days, | |
| On faces of such friends sincere, | |
| With fondness brought from boyhood, dear. | |
| |
| Farewell, a long look and the last, | 40 |
| And these have turned and passed. | |
| Henceforth he will no more, | |
| As was his wont before, | |
| Step forth from yonder door | |
| To taste the freshness of the early dawn, | 45 |
| The whiteness of the sky, | |
| The whitening stars on high, | |
| The dews yet white that lie | |
| Far spread in pearl upon the glimmering lawn; | |
| Never at evening go, | 50 |
| Sole pacing to and fro, | |
| With musing step and slow, | |
| Beneath the cope of heaven set thick with stars, | |
| Considering by whose hand | |
| Those works, in wisdom planned, | 55 |
| Were fashioned, and still stand | |
| Serenely fast and fair above these earthly jars. | |
| Never again. Forth he will soon be brought | |
| By neighbors that have loved him, having known, | |
| Plain farmers, with the farmer’s natural thought | 60 |
| And feeling, sympathetic to his own. | |
| All in a temperate air, a golden light, | |
| Rich with October, sad with afternoon, | |
| Fitly let him be laid, with rustic rite, | |
| To rest amid the ripened harvest boon. | 65 |
| He loved the ocean’s mighty murmur deep, | |
| And this shall lull him through his dreamless sleep. | |
| But those plain men will speak above his head, | |
| This is a lonesome world, and WEBSTER dead! | |
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