O, MOTHER EARTH, thy task is done | |
| With him who slumbers here below; | |
| From thy cold Arctic brow he won | |
| A glory purer than thy snow. | |
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| Thy warmer bosom gently nursed | 5 |
| The dying hero; for his eye | |
| The tropic Spring’s full splendors burst,— | |
| “In vain!” a thousand voices cry. | |
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| “In vain, in vain!” The poet’s art | |
| Forsook me when the people cried; | 10 |
| Naught but the grief that fills my heart, | |
| And memories of my friend, abide. | |
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| We parted in the midnight street, | |
| Beneath a cold autumnal rain; | |
| He wrung my hand, he stayed my feet | 15 |
| With “Friend, we shall not meet again.” | |
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| I laughed; I would not then believe, | |
| He smiled; he left me; all was o’er. | |
| How much for my poor laugh I’d give!— | |
| How much to see him smile once more! | 20 |
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| I know my lay bemeans the dead, | |
| That sorrow is an humble thing, | |
| That I should sing his praise instead, | |
| And strike it on a higher string. | |
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| Let stronger minstrels raise their lay, | 25 |
| And follow where his fame has flown; | |
| To the whole world belongs his praise, | |
| His friendship was to me alone. | |
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| So close against my heart he lay, | |
| That I should make his glory dim, | 30 |
| And hear a bashful whisper say, | |
| “I praise myself in praising him.” | |
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| O, gentle mother, following nigh | |
| His long, long funeral march, resign | |
| To me the right to lift this cry, | 35 |
| And part the sorrow that is thine. | |
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| O, father, mourning by his bier, | |
| Forgive this song of little worth! | |
| My eloquence is but a tear, | |
| I cannot, would not rise from earth. | 40 |
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| O, stricken brothers, broken band,— | |
| The link that held the jewel lost,— | |
| I pray you give me leave to stand | |
| Amid you, from the sorrowing host. | |
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| We’ll give his honors to the world, | 45 |
| We’ll hark for echoes from afar; | |
| Where’er our country’s flag ’s unfurled | |
| His name shall shine in every star. | |
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| We feel no fear that time shall keep | |
| Our hero’s memory. Let us move | 50 |
| A little from the world to weep, | |
| And for our portion take his love. | |
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