 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
585
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
No drum-beat rolls
In dismal cadence, as they sadly bear
To his last rest the king who reigned o'er souls;
No pageant there
Such as men see when sceptred princes die;
No funeral of state; but, moving slow,
All heads uncovered as the dead goes by,
Mute, awe-struck, sorrowing, the mourners go
Through the hushed streets. In that more praise behold
Than in the laurel crown and harp of gold.
In dismal cadence, as they sadly bear
To his last rest the king who reigned o'er souls;
No pageant there
Such as men see when sceptred princes die;
No funeral of state; but, moving slow,
All heads uncovered as the dead goes by,
Mute, awe-struck, sorrowing, the mourners go
Through the hushed streets. In that more praise behold
Than in the laurel crown and harp of gold.
Honor and age!
Death takes his harvest of the ripened sheaves,
But takes not all; whatever be his rage,
Three things he leaves:
A memory that shall live for countless years,
And greener grow as lengthens out the time;
The sorrow of good men, too deep for tears
That rise from shallow fountains; flowing rhyme,
Part of our language, to be said or sung
Wherever wanders forth our native tongue.
Death takes his harvest of the ripened sheaves,
But takes not all; whatever be his rage,
Three things he leaves:
A memory that shall live for countless years,
And greener grow as lengthens out the time;
The sorrow of good men, too deep for tears
That rise from shallow fountains; flowing rhyme,
Part of our language, to be said or sung
Wherever wanders forth our native tongue.
Death keeps no clutch
On one whose lyre rang loud when those around
Essayed the strings with imitative touch
And faintest sound.
The man may die, the poet still survives;
Lives in his verse his soul forevermore,
For works, not years, are measures of men's lives.
The years he had may be fourscore and four,
And yet the poet's age eternal be—
All time can co-exist with such as he.
On one whose lyre rang loud when those around
Essayed the strings with imitative touch
And faintest sound.
The man may die, the poet still survives;
Lives in his verse his soul forevermore,
For works, not years, are measures of men's lives.
The years he had may be fourscore and four,
586
All time can co-exist with such as he.
So let him rest;
Give him a quiet grave in some lone spot.
He needs no shaft of sombre granite, lest
He be forgot.
His mob is builded high and founded deep;
His epitaph is in the verse he gave
For all men's comfort. Let none living weep
For one who steps to glory from the grave;
But rather joy that at fourscore and four,
The poet dies to live forevermore.
Give him a quiet grave in some lone spot.
He needs no shaft of sombre granite, lest
He be forgot.
His mob is builded high and founded deep;
His epitaph is in the verse he gave
For all men's comfort. Let none living weep
For one who steps to glory from the grave;
But rather joy that at fourscore and four,
The poet dies to live forevermore.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |