 | The Western home |  |
125
“I STILL LIVE.”
THE LAST WORDS OF DANIEL WEBSTER.
“Still I live!” The leaves were falling
Round the mansion where he lay,
And autumnal voices calling,
Warned the summer's pride away,
While the sighing surge of ocean,
In its crested beauty ran,
Breaking with a ceaseless motion,
Like the fleeting hopes of man.
Round the mansion where he lay,
And autumnal voices calling,
Warned the summer's pride away,
While the sighing surge of ocean,
In its crested beauty ran,
Breaking with a ceaseless motion,
Like the fleeting hopes of man.
“Still I live!” Oh, strong and glorious
Were those prophet words of cheer;
For where'er in truth victorious,
Greatness hath its worship here,
Patriot power its high ovation,
Eloquence its lofty birth,
He shall win from every nation,
An undying name on earth.
Were those prophet words of cheer;
For where'er in truth victorious,
Greatness hath its worship here,
Patriot power its high ovation,
Eloquence its lofty birth,
He shall win from every nation,
An undying name on earth.
126
“Still I live!” The flesh was failing,
All in vain the healer's skill,
Light in that deep eye was paling,
And the mighty heart grew still:—
Yet the soul, its God adoring,
Clad in armour firm and bright,
O'er the body's ruin soaring,
Mingled with the Infinite.
All in vain the healer's skill,
Light in that deep eye was paling,
And the mighty heart grew still:—
Yet the soul, its God adoring,
Clad in armour firm and bright,
O'er the body's ruin soaring,
Mingled with the Infinite.
Where he sleeps, that man of glory,
Marshfield's mournful shades can say,
And his weeping country's story
Darkened on that funeral day;
But the love that deepest listened,
Caught such balm as Heaven can give,
For an angel's pinion glistened
At the echo—“Still I live!”
Marshfield's mournful shades can say,
And his weeping country's story
Darkened on that funeral day;
But the love that deepest listened,
Caught such balm as Heaven can give,
For an angel's pinion glistened
At the echo—“Still I live!”
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