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 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
THE PASSING OF JOSEPH JEFFERSON
Some element from nature seems withdrawn,
The world we lived in being of his spirit wrought—
His brightness, sweetness, tender gayety,
His childlike, wistful, and half-humorous faith
That turned this harsh earth into fairy-land.
He made our world, and now our world is changed.
The world we lived in being of his spirit wrought—
His brightness, sweetness, tender gayety,
His childlike, wistful, and half-humorous faith
That turned this harsh earth into fairy-land.
He made our world, and now our world is changed.
The sunniest nature his that ever breathed;
Most lovable of all the sons of men;
Who built his joy on making others happy;
Like Jesus, lover of the hills and shores,
And like him to the beasts and flowers kin,
And with a brother's love for all mankind,
But chiefly for the loving—tho' the lost.
In his own art,—ineffable, serene,
And mystical (not less to nature true
And to the heart of man),—his was the power
To shed a light of love on human waifs
And folk of simple soul. Where'er he went,
Sweet childhood followed and all childlike hearts.
His very presence made a holiday—
Affectionate laughter and quick, unsad tears.
Most lovable of all the sons of men;
Who built his joy on making others happy;
Like Jesus, lover of the hills and shores,
And like him to the beasts and flowers kin,
And with a brother's love for all mankind,
But chiefly for the loving—tho' the lost.
In his own art,—ineffable, serene,
And mystical (not less to nature true
And to the heart of man),—his was the power
To shed a light of love on human waifs
And folk of simple soul. Where'er he went,
Sweet childhood followed and all childlike hearts.
His very presence made a holiday—
Affectionate laughter and quick, unsad tears.
Now, he being gone, the sun shines not so bright
And every shadow darkens.
Kind Heaven forbid
Our lives should lack forever what he gave;
Prove mirage-haunted, every good unreal!
Let the brave cheer of life we had through him
Return, reflected from his joyous soul
That cannot all be lost, where'er it hides,—
Hides, but is quenched not,—haply smiling still
Near where his well-loved Shakespeare smiling sits,
Whose birthday for his own new birth he took
Into the unseen world, to him not far
But radiant with the same mysterious light
That filled his noontime with the twilight dream.
And it was Easter, too—the golden day
Of resurrection, and man's dauntless hope.
Into the unseen he past, willing and glad,
And humbly proud of a great nation's love;
In honored age, with heart untouched by years
Save to grow sweeter, and more dear, more dear—
Into that world whereon, so oft, he mused;
Where he forgets not this, nor shall we him—
That magic smile, that most pathetic voice,
That starry glance, that rare and faithful soul.
And every shadow darkens.
352
Our lives should lack forever what he gave;
Prove mirage-haunted, every good unreal!
Let the brave cheer of life we had through him
Return, reflected from his joyous soul
That cannot all be lost, where'er it hides,—
Hides, but is quenched not,—haply smiling still
Near where his well-loved Shakespeare smiling sits,
Whose birthday for his own new birth he took
Into the unseen world, to him not far
But radiant with the same mysterious light
That filled his noontime with the twilight dream.
And it was Easter, too—the golden day
Of resurrection, and man's dauntless hope.
Into the unseen he past, willing and glad,
And humbly proud of a great nation's love;
In honored age, with heart untouched by years
Save to grow sweeter, and more dear, more dear—
Into that world whereon, so oft, he mused;
Where he forgets not this, nor shall we him—
That magic smile, that most pathetic voice,
That starry glance, that rare and faithful soul.
From dream to dream he past on Shakespeare's day—
So dedicate his mind to pleasant thought,
So deep his fealty to that supreme shade;
He being, like him of Avon, a fairy child,
High-born of miracle and mystery,
Of wonder, and of wisdom, and of mirth.
So dedicate his mind to pleasant thought,
So deep his fealty to that supreme shade;
He being, like him of Avon, a fairy child,
High-born of miracle and mystery,
Of wonder, and of wisdom, and of mirth.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |