GREEN wave the oak forever o’er thy rest, | |
| Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, | |
| And, in the stillness of thy country’s breast, | |
| Thy place of memory as an altar keepest; | |
| Brightly thy spirit o’er her hills was poured, | 5 |
| Thou of the lyre and sword! | |
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| Rest, bard! rest, soldier! By the father’s hand | |
| Here shall the child of after years be led, | |
| With his wreath-offering silently to stand | |
| In the hushed presence of the glorious dead,— | 10 |
| Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod | |
| With Freedom and with God. | |
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| The oak waved proudly o’er thy burial rite, | |
| On thy crowned bier to slumber warriors bore thee, | |
| And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight | 15 |
| Wept as they veiled their drooping banners o’er thee; | |
| And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token | |
| That lyre and sword were broken. | |
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| Thou hast a hero’s tomb: a lowlier bed | |
| Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying,— | 20 |
| The gentle girl that bowed her fair young head | |
| When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying, | |
| Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave! | |
| She pined to share thy grave. | |
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| Fame was thy gift from others; but for her, | 25 |
| To whom the wide world held that only spot, | |
| She loved thee!—lovely in your lives ye were, | |
| And in your early deaths divided not. | |
| Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy,—what hath she? | |
| Her own blessed place by thee! | 30 |
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| It was thy spirit, brother! which had made | |
| The bright earth glorious to her youthful eye, | |
| Since first in childhood midst the vines ye played, | |
| And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. | |
| Ye were but two,—and when that spirit passed, | 35 |
| Woe to the one, the last! | |
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| Woe, yet not long! She lingered but to trace | |
| Thine image from the image in her breast,— | |
| Once, once again to see that buried face | |
| But smile upon her ere she went to rest. | 40 |
| Too sad a smile! its living light was o’er,— | |
| It answered hers no more. | |
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| The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, | |
| The home too lonely whence thy step had fled; | |
| What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted? | 45 |
| Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead! | |
| Softly she perished: be the flower deplored | |
| Here with the lyre and sword! | |
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| Have ye not met ere now?—so let those trust | |
| That meet for moments but to part for years; | 50 |
| That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust,— | |
| That love, where love is but a fount of tears. | |
| Brother! sweet sister! peace around ye dwell! | |
| Lyre, sword, and flower, farewell! | |
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