Memoriae Positum

MEMORIAE POSITUM.R. G. S.I.Beneath the trees,My life-long friends in this dear spot,Sad now for eyes that see them notI hear the autumnal breezeWake the sear leaves to sigh for gladness gone,Whispering hoarse presage of oblivion, —Hear, restless as the seas,Time's grim feet rustling through the withered graceOf many a spreading realm and strongstemmed race,Even as my own through these.

Why make we moanFor loss that doth enrich us yetWith upward yearnings of regret?Bleaker than unmossed stoneOur lives were but for this immortal gainOf unstilled longing and inspiring pain!As thrills of long-hushed toneLive in the viol, so our souls grow fineWith keen vibrations from the touch divineOf noble natures gone.

'T were indiscreetTo vex the shy and sacred griefWith harsh obtrusions of relief;Yet, Verse, with noiseless feet,Go whisper: "This death hath far choicer endsThan slowly to impearl in hearts of friends;These obsequies 'tis meetNot to seclude in closets of the heart,But, church-like, with wide doorways, to impartEven to the heedless street."

II.

Brave, good, and true,I see him stand before me now,And read again on that young brow,Where every hope was new,How sweet were life! Yet, by the mouth firm-set,And look made up for Duty's utmost debt,I could divine he knewThat death within the sulphurous hostile lines,In the mere wreck of nobly-pitched designs,Plucks heart's-ease, and not rue.

Happy their endWho vanish down life's evening streamPlacid as swans that drift in dreamRound the next river-bend!Happy long life, with honor at the close,Friends' painless tears, the softened thought of foes!And yet, like him, to spendAll at a gush, keeping our first faith sureFrom mid-life's doubt and eld's contentment poor, —What more could Fortune send?

Right in the van,On the red rampart's slippery swell,With heart that beat a charge, he fellFoeward, as fits a man;But the high soul burns on to light men's feetWhere death for noble ends makes dying sweet;His life her crescent's spanOrbs full with share in their undarkening daysWho ever climbed the battailous steeps of praiseSince valor's praise began.

III.

His life's expenseHath won for him coeval youthWith the immaculate prime of Truth;While we, who make pretenceAt living on, and wake and eat and sleep,And life's stale trick by repetition keep,Our fickle permanence i A poor leaf-shadow on a brook, whose playOf busy idlesse ceases with our day)Is the mere cheat of sense.

We bide our chance,Unhappy, and make terms withFate A little more to let us wait;He leads for aye the advance,Hope's forlorn-hopes that plant the desperate goodFor nobler Earths and days of manlier mood;Our wall of circumstanceCleared at a bound, he flashes o'er the fight,A saintly shape of fame, to cheer the rightAnd steel each wavering glance.

I write of one,While with dim eyes I think of three;Who weeps not others fair and brave as he?Ah, when the fight is won,Dear Land, whom triflers now make bold to scorn,(Thee! from whose forehead Earth awaits her morn,)How nobler shall the sunFlame in thy sky, how braver breathe thy air,That thou bred'st children who for thee could dareAnd die as thine have done!