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I WHEN louder voices throbbed with scorn and hate, | |
| Ah, dear, glad, soaring spirit of the sun, | |
| The golden loom, from which thy thought was spun, | |
| Sang on with cheer and gentleness elate, | |
| Seeking to end our war and fierce debate | 5 |
| And make our lives in kindlier courses run, | |
| By aid of that sweet wisdom thou had’st won | |
| From Life the Sphinx, and the veiled juggler, Fate! | |
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| This be my hope—when from my halting hand, | |
| My pen has dropped for aye, and in the deep | 10 |
| Of yon still sea of death, I sink to sleep, | |
| If some new light should strike across mine eyes— | |
| If I should wake—I worthy be to rise, | |
| And greet thee, brother, in that other land! | |
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II The sea was ever in thy dreams; it stirred, | 15 |
| And lisped and sobbed and thundered in thy heart; | |
| Its ebb and flow inspired thy soul-spun art; | |
| And as we linger o’er each living word, | |
| Each thought that soars like some far-flying bird— | |
| We know thy secret was the siren song, | 20 |
| The old, old lure that in the ages long | |
| Thy fellow-seers and fellow-dreamers heard. | |
| |
| And where thou liest in thy mountain tomb, | |
| The sea shall sing thy requiem for aye; | |
| Shall murmur to thy spirit night and day | 25 |
| The mystery of the ebb and flow of things | |
| That, like the fluttering of countless wings, | |
| Quickened thy rare dream-children in the womb. | |
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III Oh, well-beloved, thou to whom all men | |
| Were brothers whatsoe’er the tongue they spake, | 30 |
| When thy dark liegemen bore thee through the brake | |
| And laid thee in the tomb beyond the ken | |
| Of Old-World strife, thy spirit said ‘Amen!’ | |
| Samoa, jewel of the southern main, | |
| After long torture, shrived thee of thy pain, | 35 |
| God could not make it to thee alien! | |
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| There, on the mountain, sleep thou to the end; | |
| Thy requiem the murmur of the sea, | |
| And song of sea-birds wandr’ing far and free! | |
| If thoughtless hands would rive thee from thy tomb, | 40 |
| The living curse that Shakespeare, dying, penned, | |
| Touch thy despoilers like the breath of doom! | |
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