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196

ELISHA KENT KANE.

February 27, 1857.

O mother Earth, thy task is done
With him who slumbers here below;
From thy cold Arctic brow he won
A glory purer than thy snow.
Thy warmer bosom gently nursed
The dying hero; for his eye
The tropic Spring's full splendors burst,—
“In vain!” a thousand voices cry.
“In vain, in vain!” The poet's art
Forsook me when the people cried;
Naught but the grief that fills my heart,
And memories of my friend, abide.

197

We parted in the midnight street,
Beneath a cold autumnal rain;
He wrung my hand, he stayed my feet
With “Friend, we shall not meet again.”
I laughed; I would not then believe;
He smiled; he left me; all was o'er.
How much for my poor laugh I 'd give!—
How much to see him smile once more!
I know my lay bemeans the dead,
That sorrow is an humble thing,
That I should sing his praise instead,
And strike it on a higher string.
Let stronger minstrels raise their lay,
And follow where his fame has flown;
To the whole world belongs his praise,
His friendship was to me alone.

198

So close against my heart he lay,
That I should make his glory dim,
And hear a bashful whisper say,
“I praise myself in praising him.”
O gentle mother, following nigh
His long, long funeral march, resign
To me the right to lift this cry,
And part the sorrow that is thine.
O father, mourning by his bier,
Forgive this song of little worth!
My eloquence is but a tear,
I cannot, would not rise from earth.
O stricken brothers, broken band,—
The link that held the jewels lost,—
I pray you give me leave to stand
Amid you, from the sorrowing host.

199

We 'll give his honors to the world,
We 'll hark for echoes from afar;
Where'er our country's flag 's unfurled
His name shall shine in every star.
We feel no fear that time shall keep
Our hero's memory. Let us move
A little from the world to weep,
And for our portion take his love.