 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
249
DIRGE FOR THE MIGHTY.
Fallen is our chief and sage,
Lonely is the Hermitage!
Muffled drum and tolling bell,
And sad dirge-notes on the gale,
Through the land he loved so well
Tell the tale.
Lonely is the Hermitage!
Muffled drum and tolling bell,
And sad dirge-notes on the gale,
Through the land he loved so well
Tell the tale.
Warning he will give no more—
His long strife with pain is o'er;
Honors paid the worthy dead,
And the sable weeds of woe
Whisper that his laurelled head
Lieth low.
His long strife with pain is o'er;
Honors paid the worthy dead,
And the sable weeds of woe
Whisper that his laurelled head
Lieth low.
Calmly he hath laid him down
In the fullness of renown,
And the soil he proudly trod
Would in blood be darkly steeped
Ere the foe polluted sod
O'er him heaped.
In the fullness of renown,
And the soil he proudly trod
Would in blood be darkly steeped
Ere the foe polluted sod
O'er him heaped.
Might to him belongeth still,
Though no more his pulse will thrill;
For his name—a watch-word stern!
Would affright invading host,
Should the fires of battle burn
On our coast.
Though no more his pulse will thrill;
For his name—a watch-word stern!
Would affright invading host,
Should the fires of battle burn
On our coast.
Millions sorrow for the fall
Of a warder on the wall;
One who well his station high
Through the night of peril kept,
And whose keen, far-seeing eye
Never slept.
Of a warder on the wall;
250
Through the night of peril kept,
And whose keen, far-seeing eye
Never slept.
Heavenly radiance bathed his soul
As he neared the welcome goal,
And the closing of his day
To a sun resemblance bore—
Brightening, as it passed away,
More and more.
As he neared the welcome goal,
And the closing of his day
To a sun resemblance bore—
Brightening, as it passed away,
More and more.
Let his glorious battle-sword,
Dreaded by oppression's horde,
Grace the nation's banner'd hall—
Where, if treason should be breathed,
It would clatter on the wall,
Half-unsheathed.
Dreaded by oppression's horde,
Grace the nation's banner'd hall—
Where, if treason should be breathed,
It would clatter on the wall,
Half-unsheathed.
His memorials are his deeds—
No sarcophagus he needs,
Nor stone column reared by art,
To perpetuate his fame;
For an empire's mighty heart
Bears his name.
No sarcophagus he needs,
Nor stone column reared by art,
To perpetuate his fame;
For an empire's mighty heart
Bears his name.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |