“SHALL WE NOT PRAISE THE LIVING?”
I
Ungenerous!
Shall we not praise the living as the dead?
And I, who lately sang a beautiful spirit fled,
Shall I not praise a living spirit we know,
Dear heart! we know full well,
And long have known, in utmost joy and woe;
In our own sorrows, and delights;
Her days of brightness and lone-weeping nights!
If she should die, alas the day! how swift this verse would tell
Our anguish, our large loss, irreparable,
In a wild passion of praise
For her dear virtues, her sweet friendship's ways,
That many know; but only a sacred few
Know, as to the evening hour is known the dew,
As the still dawn knows the great, melting stars,
As night is intimate to those who love,
As sorrow's voice is known to the mourning dove,
As memoried twilight holds the sunset's crimson bars.
II
Shall we not praise the loveliness
God gave her, and the true heart that cannot help but bless?
For she is not of those
Who virtues wear like graceful draperies,
But breathes them as her life. Where'er she goes
Go pleasure and pure thoughts, and baseness dies.
A holy ministry her life is, even without intent;
For, tho' she worships duty,
Such elements in her are exquisitely blent
She cannot but be kind;
A spiritual radiance in her beauty
Makes itself inly felt, even by the blind.
Ah, thou and I, dear soul! we know
How the rich courtesy that touched full many a heart
Is no mere learnt and gracious art;
For when, to those she loved, keen trouble came,
How leaped her spirit, like a flame;
How quick, sure, self-forgetting, beyond thought,
The angelic succor that brave spirit brought!
III
How may I fitly name them all—
The graces, gentlenesses, benedicities,
That in a white processional
Move before these musing eyes;
Nor would I shame
That proud humility which is the crown and chief
Of all the virtues that make up her golden sheaf;
Tho' should I name
Each separate goodness, clearly, that is her very own,
To her calm eyes, alone,
The authentic picture would be never known—
The portrait of another it would seem;
And should one say, “This, this indeed is you!”
“No,” she would cry, “'t is but a poet's dream,
And, save as a dream, it cannot all be true!”
IV
This, then, the dream: Large, innocent eyes,
Lit with life's romance and surprise,
And with a child's strange wisdom wise.
A child in nature, eager, gay,
And, yet, in all a woman's way
Wifely and motherly her day.
Curious, but constant; slow to wrath,
Yet nobly scornful; pride she hath
That sheds a splendor on her path.
She breathes a heaven-born sympathy;
For her there is no low nor high;
Goodness is honor in her eye:
So, in the throng, each separate one
Deems her glad welcome his alone,
As if some special grace were shown.
The great world, seeing her afar,
Claims her, and names her for a star;
But, among nearer watchers, are
Some who a sacred tale could tell
How those bright beams, ineffable,
On one great hero-spirit fell.
V
Shall we not praise the living?
Too soon the living pass
Like images on the unremembering glass,
Scarce even a breath's length! shall we not thanksgiving
Upraise, or e'er the everlasting sleep
Hath dulled the ear? that slumber deep
Whereof we know so little, however we may hope—
Mortals who see a closing door, and never see it ope.
