 | [A pure and faithful soul, in] A memorial of Horace Greeley |  |
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A PURE AND FAITHFUL SOUL.
I.
Was there no other way than this,O faithful Soul, to smite with silence those,
Too base for friends, less generous than foes,
The unrelenting pack
That followed thee, and made along thy track
The boor's coarse jest, the slimy serpent's hiss?—
Was there no other way than this?
II.
Ah, they to whom the hatred of a clanSeems nobler than the honesty of man,
Pause, startled at thy grave,
And where they sought to ruin, now would save!
Their jibes are heard no more,
And, stammering into truth, subsides the lie:
For such a conquest, must thou die,
When Life no less had made thee conqueror?
III.
Too dear the price we payWho saw thy patient purpose day by day
Unfolded, that the full design might be
Embodied Love, incarnate Charity,
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And God's impartial justice shown in thee!
We stood beside thee at thy post,
And, knowing nearest, loved thee most:
We would have given our bosoms for a shield
Against the arrows sped
To harm thy wise and gentle head.
But in thy goodness thou wert triply steeled!
We knew—as thou didst, never man forbore:
We knew—as thou didst, never man forgave:
Art still, O brain, high Duty's patient slave?
O heart, devoid of malice, beat'st no more?
IV.
For all your silenced slanders, give us worse!Renew the loathsome noises of the fight,
Forgetfulness of what he did, and spite
Of party hate, the Nation's waxing curse,
So ye for us preserve
One honest man, like him, who will not swerve
From what the large heart dictates to the brain;
Or, call him back again
Who felt, where others planned;
Who cast away the mantle of a name
And saw his naked nature turned to blame;
Who narrower fealties beneath him trod,
In stern consistency to God!
There is no child in all the land,
But might have craved the blessing of his hand:
There is no threshold but his feet
Might cross, a messenger of counsel sweet,
Of peace and patience and forgiving love,
Of Toil that bends and Faith that looks above!
V.
In vain! our cry is vain:We can but turn, pure Soul, to thee again.
So much of large beneficence thy mind
For all the race designed,
So much thy heart inclosed of brotherhood
And ardent hope of good,
Thou leavest us thyself in these behind!
We can not grieve as those who do not trust:
We knew thee nearest, loved thee most,
And thou, a sacred ghost,
Already risen from thy fallen dust,
Speak'st, as of old, to us: “Be firm, be pure, be just!”
Bayard Taylor.
Gotha, Germany, Dec. 1, 1872.
| [A pure and faithful soul, in] A memorial of Horace Greeley | |