Last poems including Afterglow and Beyond the sunset

Draw near, O Spirit of the Past, draw near,
And let us feel thy living presence here!
With reverent hearts and voices hushed and low,
We wait to hear thy garments' rustling flow.
From all the turmoil of the passing day,
From all the cares that meet us by the way,
From life's deep yearnings, and its strange unrest
When joy and sorrow strive within the breast,
From aspirations that too often seem
Like mocking phantoms of some fevered dream
We turn aside. This hour is thine alone,
And none shall share the grandeur of thy throne.

Ah, thou art here! Beneath these whispering trees
Thy breath floats softly on the passing breeze;
We feel the presence that we cannot see,
And every moment draws us nearer thee.
Could we but see thee with thy solemn eyes,
In those rare depths such wondrous meaning lies—
Thy dark robes sweeping this enchanted ground—
Thy midnight hair with purple pansies crowned—
Thy lip so sadly sweet, thy brow serene!
There is no expectation in thy mien,
For thou art done with dreams. Nor joy nor pain
Can e'er disturb thy placid calm again.
What is this veil that hides thee from our sight?
Breathe it away, thou spirit darkly bright!
Now seven-score times the summer's fragrant blooms
Have laden all the air with sweet perfumes,—
And seven-score times has kindly winter spread
His snowy mantle o'er the violet's bed,
Since on these grassy knolls the quick, sharp stroke
Of the young woodman's axe the silence broke!
Not then did these encircling hills look down
On quaint old farmhouse, or on steepled town;

But the fair Otter as it flowed along
Sang, as it sings to-day, its joyous song,
Biding its time. No bard had sung its praise;
No poet crowned it with immortal bays;
It played no part in legendary lore,
And young romance knew not its winding shore.

But in her own loveliness Nature is glad,
And little she cares for man's smile or his frown;
In the robes of her royalty still she is clad,
Though his eye may behold not her sceptre or crown!
And over our beautiful river the trees
Swayed lightly as now in the frolicsome breeze;
And the tremulous violet lifted its eye
As blue as its own to the laughing blue sky.

The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold,
Held up their chalices of gold
To catch the sunshine and the dew,
Gayly as those that bloom for you,
The woods were full of praise and prayer,
Although no human tongue was there,

For every pine and hemlock sung
The grand cathedral aisles among,
And every flower that gemmed the sod
Looked up and whispered,—“Thou art God!”
The brown thrush from its golden throat
Poured out its long, melodious note;
The pigeons cooed; the veery threw
Its mellow trill from spray to spray;
The wild night-hawk its trumpet blew,
And the owl cried, “Tu whit, tu whoo,”
From set of sun to break of day.
High on the tall cliff's craggy crest
The great bald eagle built its nest;
Down from the hills its thirst to slake,
The deer trod softly through the brake;
The black bear roamed the forest wide,
The fierce wolf tracked the mountain-side,
The red fox barked—a strange, weird sound
That woke the slumbering echoes round,
And the burrowing mink and otter hid
In their holes the tangled roots amid.
Lords of their limitless domain,

Of hill and dale, of mount and plain,
The wild things dreamed not of the hour
When they should own their Master's power.

But he came at last! With a sturdy hand
And a voice of deep and stern command,
With a stately presence, a mien that told
His heart was as true as it was bold,
He came to his own and proclaimed his sway,
And the forest fled from his glance away!
The rightful heir of the regions round,
No golden circlet his forehead crowned,
But he wore his strength with a kingly grace
As he proudly strode to his destined place.

He came at last and with him came
Matron and mother, maiden and dame,
Strong as he in the strength of prayer,
And the might of hope to do and dare!
But ah! There was one who dwelt alone
Unto whom we raise this votive stone—
One who made for her birds a nest

Under yon tall cliff's sheltering crest,
Where her name shall be graved, and her fame endure
As long as the rock stands strong and sure!

Full seven-score years! Could they this day return
How would their inmost hearts within them burn—
How would the earnest, thoughtful, questioning eyes
Find marvels in the earth, and seas, and skies!
Yet could our voices reach the dead whose dust
So long has been their Country's sacred trust,
This truth would be with greatest wonder fraught,—
That they are heroes to our eyes and thought.
For they were men who never dreamed of fame;
They did not toil to make themselves a name;
They little fancied that when years had passed
And the long centuries had died at last,
Another age should make their graves a shrine,
And fresh green chaplets for their memories twine.
They simply strove, as all of us may strive,
Full, earnest lives in sober strength to live:
They did the duty nearest to their hand;
Subdued wild nature as at God's command;

Laid the broad acres open to the sun,
And made fair homes in forests dark and dun;
Built churches, founded schools, established laws,
Kindly and just and true to freedom's cause;
Resisted wrong, and with stout hands and hearts,
In war, as well as peace, played well their parts.
Their men were brave; their women pure and true;
Their sons ashamed no honest work to do;
And while they dreamed no dreams of being great,
They did great deeds and conquered hostile fate!

We laud them, we praise them, we bless them to-day;
At their graves, as their right, grateful homage we pay;
And the laurel-crowned Present comes proudly at last
To kneel by our side at the shrine of the Past!
Hark!—A breath of faint music, a murmur of song!
A form of strange beauty is floating along
On the soft summer air, and the Future draws near
With a light on her young brow unshadowed and clear.
Two garlands she bears in the hands that not yet
Have toiled 'neath the burden and heat of the day;
Lo! both are of amaranth, fragrant and wet

With the dew of remembrance, and fadeless alway!
Oh! well may we hush our vain babblings—and wait!
He who merits the crown wears it sooner or late!
On the brow of the Present,—the grave of the Past,
The wreaths they have earned shall rest surely at last!

University of Virginia Library

THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST