 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
199
“DE MORTUIS.”
“Manibus date lilia plenis
Purpureos spargam flores, animamque...
His saltem accumulem donis et fungar inani munere.”
Purpureos spargam flores, animamque...
His saltem accumulem donis et fungar inani munere.”
Oh come, let us haste to his grave, let us scatter rich garlands of flowers!
We gave him scant honor while living; faint reticent praises were ours
For his genius, his virtues, his courage,—but now his quick spirit hath fled:
O'er his tomb wreaths of roses and laurels and bays let us strew to him dead.
Ay, now, when all weeping and praising are utterly vain, let us weep!
Let us praise him ungrudgingly now that, unconscious, he sleeps his last sleep.
We gave him scant honor while living; faint reticent praises were ours
For his genius, his virtues, his courage,—but now his quick spirit hath fled:
O'er his tomb wreaths of roses and laurels and bays let us strew to him dead.
Ay, now, when all weeping and praising are utterly vain, let us weep!
Let us praise him ungrudgingly now that, unconscious, he sleeps his last sleep.
Will he heed what we say?—Will he hear us and see us? Ah no! 't is too late!
We are always too late with our praises and pæans,—delaying, we wait,
Till Death shrouds the windows and darkens life's warm breathing house with its pall,
And in vain, to the tenant departed, Love, Friendship, or Calumny call.
Ah! then we arouse in our griefs, ah! then, and then only, the meed
That was due to the warm living spirit we give to the cold senseless dead.
We are always too late with our praises and pæans,—delaying, we wait,
Till Death shrouds the windows and darkens life's warm breathing house with its pall,
And in vain, to the tenant departed, Love, Friendship, or Calumny call.
200
That was due to the warm living spirit we give to the cold senseless dead.
For our brother, while here he is striving and moving along the world's ways,
We have only harsh judgments, stern counsel, half-uttered affections, cold praise.
Our cheer of full-hearted approval, our frank, quick applause we deny;
Envy, Malice, and Jealousy, Calumny, all the world's hounds in full cry
Unrelenting pursue him—while Friendship barks low in the rear of the race,
Reluctant, perhaps, at his faults and his frailties, till Death ends the chase.
We have only harsh judgments, stern counsel, half-uttered affections, cold praise.
Our cheer of full-hearted approval, our frank, quick applause we deny;
Envy, Malice, and Jealousy, Calumny, all the world's hounds in full cry
Unrelenting pursue him—while Friendship barks low in the rear of the race,
Reluctant, perhaps, at his faults and his frailties, till Death ends the chase.
Ah! then all his virtues, his merits shine forth; all the charms that he owned
Rise up unobscured in their beauty, all frailties and faults are atoned.
All the good is remembered and pondered, the bad swept away out of sight,
And in death we behold him transfigured, and robed in memorial light.
We lament when lamenting is useless, we praise when all praises are vain,
And then, turning back and forgetting, begin the same sad work again.
Rise up unobscured in their beauty, all frailties and faults are atoned.
All the good is remembered and pondered, the bad swept away out of sight,
And in death we behold him transfigured, and robed in memorial light.
We lament when lamenting is useless, we praise when all praises are vain,
And then, turning back and forgetting, begin the same sad work again.
201
Ah! why did we stint to him living our gift? Were we poor? Had we naught,—
Not a wreath, not a flower,—for our friend to whose grave we such tribute have brought?
Ah, no! the largess of the heart that had strengthened and gladdened his soul
We refused him, and proffered him only the critic's poor miserly dole.
Still we meant to be just, so we claim, though the judgment was cold that we gave.
Was our justice then better than love?—Come, say! as you stand by his grave.
Not a wreath, not a flower,—for our friend to whose grave we such tribute have brought?
Ah, no! the largess of the heart that had strengthened and gladdened his soul
We refused him, and proffered him only the critic's poor miserly dole.
Still we meant to be just, so we claim, though the judgment was cold that we gave.
Was our justice then better than love?—Come, say! as you stand by his grave.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |