University of Virginia Library

ON THE DEATH OF AN OBSCURE CITIZEN.

Men wonder when the planets do go out,
When stars desert their places—when the might
Of the great oak is shatter'd, and the storm
Sweeps the imperial trophy from the brow
Of him who look'd the god in mortal eyes,
And grew so to his own. But ah! for thee,
So lowly in life's places—with no power
To lift thee into majesty—no grace,
To woo glad eyes in homage to thy walks,
And consecrate thy doings with applause
That cheers to new achievements—with no aim
Of greatness, and but little thirst for life—
Death hath no dignity, and thou hast sunk,
Silent, from out the crowded ways of man,
Into the quiet grave, and art not miss'd!
But nature hath her obsequies for all,
And virtue is remember'd with a tear,
When fame itself grows voiceless o'er the great,
And leaves their shrines to ruin. Thou hast made
Some sweet affections blossom at thy grave,
Which hath befitting flowers, that take on bloom
Ere spring hath made escape from winter cells,
Still pale with cold and terror of pursuit.
Love did not shrink to shelter in thy cot,
Though at the door stood poverty; and toil,
For evermore within, from dawn to dark,
Had little respite to enjoy the smiles
That warm'd his courage to resolve, and made
The burden easy of the daily care!
But in the very rareness of the joy,
Grows its delicious value; and thy bliss,
If lowly in condition,—wanting state
In utterance, and significant to thee,
Alone, of all around thee, was not less
The wholesome solace of a life that knew
A cottage empire only. In thy home,
Sate peace, content with lowliness, that gave
New fireside warmth and gladness to thy hearth,
That wore no gauds of grandeur. Love could share
Thy labors, and could lighten them; and truth
Found thee a treasure, that, within thy heart,
Assured of trust, and made all a calm delight
That never wept for fortune. Thou wast blest,
To the necessity reconciled, that made
Thy home secure from envy, yet which brought
An adequate beauty to thy homely weeds,
And sweetness to thy threshold; and thy life
Pass'd on as passes the long summer day,
O'er silent forests, making shade and sun,
Equally fruitful of repose and love,
Commercing in rare union with a joy
That if it knows no gushing passionate,
Knows not the storms of passion which but take
The heat of pleasure, all the calm denied,
That makes the pleasure holy and secure.
Thy living and thy dying, both the same,
Safe from the tempest; in the world without
Making no stir. Few were they who knew
Thy virtues; few at thy departure felt
That something which was precious to the day,
Had been despoil'd by night. Yet in thy home,
There hangs a blind sad vacancy, that looks
Through eyes of terror to the lonely seat
Of thy sad widow. If she weeps, her tears
Lack voice, unless to those, her orphan brood,
That hear, through a like consciousness of loss,
And echo with a silence like her own.
Ah! nature hath not one unnoted child:
Some soul still sorrows when the light goes out,
Though feeble, which in poverty's lone cell,
Shone for the humblest; desolate hearts still shrine
The lineaments of care, when thus allied
To love; and precious instincts still discern
The little lowly hiding-place in earth,
Unmark'd by any monument, where sleeps
The form of him whose gifts in poverty
Made poverty's self a treasure, best of all!