Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > An American Anthology, 1787–1900
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  An American Anthology, 1787–1900.  1900.
699. An Ode
On the Unveiling of the Shaw Memorial on Boston Common, May Thirty-first, 1897
By Thomas Bailey Aldrich

    NOT with slow, funereal sound
    Come we to this sacred ground;
Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum,
    Bringing a cypress wreath
      To lay, with bended knee,        5
    On the cold brows of Death—
      Not so, dear God, we come,
    But with the trumpets’ blare
And shot-torn battle-banners flung to air,
        As for a victory!        10
Hark to the measured tread of martial feet,
The music and the murmurs of the street!
    No bugle breathes this day
    Disaster and retreat!—
    Hark, how the iron lips        15
    Of the great battle-ships
Salute the City from her azure Bay!

Time was—time was, ah, unforgotten years!—
We paid our hero tribute of our tears.
        But now let go        20
All sounds and signs and formulas of woe:
  ’T is Life, not Death, we celebrate;
  To Life, not Death, we dedicate
This storied bronze, whereon is wrought
The lithe immortal figure of our thought,        25
  To show forever to men’s eyes,
  Our children’s children’s children’s eyes,
        How once he stood
        In that heroic mood,
    He and his dusky braves        30
    So fain of glorious graves!—
    One instant stood, and then
Drave through that cloud of purple steel and flame,
Which wrapt him, held him, gave him not again,
But in its trampled ashes left to Fame        35
        An everlasting name!

      That was indeed to live—
      At one bold swoop to wrest
      From darkling death the best
      That death to life can give.        40
      He fell as Roland fell
      That day at Roncevaux,
With foot upon the ramparts of the foe!
      A pæan, not a knell,
      For heroes dying so!        45
      No need for sorrow here,
      No room for sigh or tear,
Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know.
      See where he rides, our Knight!
      Within his eyes the light        50
Of battle, and youth’s gold about his brow;
Our Paladin, our Soldier of the Cross,
      Not weighing gain with loss—
      World-loser, that won all
      Obeying duty’s call!        55
      Not his, at peril’s frown,
      A pulse of quicker beat;
      Not his to hesitate
      And parley hold with Fate,
      But proudly to fling down        60
      His gauntlet at her feet.
O soul of loyal valor and white truth,
      Here, by this iron gate,
Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore,
      Stand thou for evermore        65
      In thy undying youth!
    The tender heart, the eagle eye!
      Oh, unto him belong
      The homages of Song;
      Our praises and the praise        70
      Of coming days
      To him belong—
To him, to him, the dead that shall not die!


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