 | The Western home |  |
149
MONODY TO DANIEL WADSWORTH.
Thou, of an honoured name,
That gave in days of old,
Shepherds to Zion's fold,
And chiefs of power and fame,
When Washington, in times of peril drew
Forth in their country's cause, the valiant and the true,
Thou, who so many a lowly home didst cheer,
Counting thy wealth a sacred trust,
With shuddering heart the knell we hear
That tells us, thou art dust.
That gave in days of old,
Shepherds to Zion's fold,
And chiefs of power and fame,
When Washington, in times of peril drew
Forth in their country's cause, the valiant and the true,
Thou, who so many a lowly home didst cheer,
Counting thy wealth a sacred trust,
With shuddering heart the knell we hear
That tells us, thou art dust.
Friend! we have let thee fall
Into the grave and have not gathered all
The wisdom thou didst love to pour
From a rich mind's exhaustless store;
Ah! we were slow of heart
To reap the ripened moments ere their flight,
Or thou, perchance, to us hadst taught the art
Heaven's gifts to use aright;
Amid infirmity and pain
Time's golden sands to save;
With steadfast heart the truth maintain;
To frown on ills the life that stain,
Making the soul their slave;
To joy in all things beautiful, and trace
The slightest smile or shade, that mantled nature's face.
Into the grave and have not gathered all
The wisdom thou didst love to pour
From a rich mind's exhaustless store;
Ah! we were slow of heart
To reap the ripened moments ere their flight,
Or thou, perchance, to us hadst taught the art
Heaven's gifts to use aright;
Amid infirmity and pain
Time's golden sands to save;
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To frown on ills the life that stain,
Making the soul their slave;
To joy in all things beautiful, and trace
The slightest smile or shade, that mantled nature's face.
Yes, we were slow of heart, and dreamed
To see thee still at evening-tide
With page of knowledge spread, thy pleasant hearth beside,
When to thy clearer sight there gleamed
The beckoning hand, the waiting eye,
The smile of welcome from the sky,
Of Her who was thine Angel here below,
And unto whom 'twas meet that thou shouldst long to go.
To see thee still at evening-tide
With page of knowledge spread, thy pleasant hearth beside,
When to thy clearer sight there gleamed
The beckoning hand, the waiting eye,
The smile of welcome from the sky,
Of Her who was thine Angel here below,
And unto whom 'twas meet that thou shouldst long to go.
Friend! thou didst give command
To him who dealt thy soul its heavenly bread,
As by thy suffering bed
He took his faithful stand,
Not to pronounce thy praise when thou wert dead;
So, though impulsive promptings came
Warm o'er his lips, like rushing flame,
He struggled, and o'ercame;
Even when in sad array
From thy lone home, where summer roses twined,
The weepers listened ere they took their way
In funeral ranks, thy sable hearse behind,
And 'neath the hallowed dome, where thou so long
Hadst meekly worshipped with the Sabbath throng,
Thy venerated form was laid,
While mournful dirges rose and solemn prayers were made.
To him who dealt thy soul its heavenly bread,
As by thy suffering bed
He took his faithful stand,
Not to pronounce thy praise when thou wert dead;
So, though impulsive promptings came
Warm o'er his lips, like rushing flame,
He struggled, and o'ercame;
Even when in sad array
From thy lone home, where summer roses twined,
The weepers listened ere they took their way
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And 'neath the hallowed dome, where thou so long
Hadst meekly worshipped with the Sabbath throng,
Thy venerated form was laid,
While mournful dirges rose and solemn prayers were made.
Oh Friend! thou didst o'ermaster well
The pride of wealth, and multiply
Good deeds, not done for the good word of men
But for the Master's Eye,
And Heaven's recording pen,
For thou didst wisely weigh
Earth's loud applause and Fame's exulting swell,
Like bubble dancing on the noon-tide ray,
A sigh upon the grave,
Scarce stirring the frail flowers that o'er its surface wave.
The pride of wealth, and multiply
Good deeds, not done for the good word of men
But for the Master's Eye,
And Heaven's recording pen,
For thou didst wisely weigh
Earth's loud applause and Fame's exulting swell,
Like bubble dancing on the noon-tide ray,
A sigh upon the grave,
Scarce stirring the frail flowers that o'er its surface wave.
Yet deem not, Friend revered!
Oblivion o'er thy name shall sweep,
For the fair halls that thou hast reared
Thy cherished image keep;
Yon fairy cottage, in its robe of flowers;
Those classic turrets where the stranger strays
Mid works of pictured art, and scrolls of ancient days;
And that gray tower, on Monte Vidies crest,
Where mid Elysian haunts and bowers,
Thou didst rejoice to see all people blest;
These chronicle thy name,
And still, in many a darkened cot
Where penury holds its sway,
Thou hast a tear-embalmed fame
That may not quickly pass away,
Or lightly be forgot.
Oblivion o'er thy name shall sweep,
For the fair halls that thou hast reared
Thy cherished image keep;
Yon fairy cottage, in its robe of flowers;
Those classic turrets where the stranger strays
Mid works of pictured art, and scrolls of ancient days;
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Where mid Elysian haunts and bowers,
Thou didst rejoice to see all people blest;
These chronicle thy name,
And still, in many a darkened cot
Where penury holds its sway,
Thou hast a tear-embalmed fame
That may not quickly pass away,
Or lightly be forgot.
Yet, were all dumb beside,
The lyre that thou didst wake, the lone heart thou didst guide
From early youth, with fostering care,
Inciting still, to do, or bear,
As God's good-will might be;
These, may not in cold silence bide,
For were it so, the stones on which we tread
Would find a tongue to chide
Ingratitude so dread:—
No! till the last, faint gleam of memory's fires
On the worn altar of the heart expires,
Leave thou, the much indebted free
To speak what truth inspires,
And deeply mourn for thee.
The lyre that thou didst wake, the lone heart thou didst guide
From early youth, with fostering care,
Inciting still, to do, or bear,
As God's good-will might be;
These, may not in cold silence bide,
For were it so, the stones on which we tread
Would find a tongue to chide
Ingratitude so dread:—
No! till the last, faint gleam of memory's fires
On the worn altar of the heart expires,
Leave thou, the much indebted free
To speak what truth inspires,
And deeply mourn for thee.
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