University of Virginia Library

[OMITTED] Grand, heroic, true,
Faithful and brave thine earnest work to do,
O glorious present! we rejoice in thee,
Thou noble nurse of great deeds yet to be!
Hast thou not shown us that our mother Earth
Still, in exultant joy, gives heroes birth?
Do not the old romances that our youth,
Revered and honored as the truest truth,
Grow pale and dim before the facts sublime
Thy pen has written on the scroll of Time?
Ah! never yet did poet's tongue,
Though like a silver bell it rung;
Or minstrel, o'er his sounding lyre
Breathing the old, prophetic fire;
Or harper, in the storied walls
Of Scotia's proud, baronial halls—
Where mail-clad men with sword and spear
Waited entranced the song to hear,
That through the stormy midnight hour
Fast held them in its spell of power—
Ah! never yet did they rehearse,
In flowing rhyme or stately verse,
The praise of deeds more nobly done,
Or tell of fields more grandly won!
We laud thee, we praise thee, we bless thee to-day!
At thy feet, lowly bending, glad homage we pay!
Thou hast taught us that men are as brave as of yore;
That the day of great deeds and great thought is not o'er;
That the courage undaunted, the far-reaching faith,
The strength that unshaken looks calmly on death,
The self-abnegation that hastens to lay
Its all on the altar, have not passed away.
Thou hast taught us that “country” is more than a name;
That honor unsullied is better than fame;
Thou hast proved that while man can still battle for truth,
Even boyhood can give up the promise of youth,
And, yielding its life with a smile and a sigh,
Say, “'Tis sweet for my God and my country to die.”
O heart-searching Present, thy sons have gone down
To the night of the grave in their day of renown!
Thy daughters have watched by the hearthstone in vain
For the loved and the lost that returned not again.
No Spartans were they—yet with tears falling fast,
Their faith and their patience endured to the last;
And God gave them strength to their dearest to say,
“Go ye forth to the fight, while we labor and pray!”
Thou hast opened thy coffers on land and on sea,
And broad-handed Charity, noble and free,
Has lavished thy bounties on friend and on foe,
Like the rain that, descending, falls softly and slow
On the just and the unjust, and never may know
The one from the other. When thy story is told
By some age that looks backward and calls thee “the old,”
It shall puzzle its sages, all great as thou art,
To tell which was greatest, thy head or thy heart!
Mighty words thy lips have spoken—
Strongest fetters thou hast broken—
And in tones like those of thunder,
When the clouds are rent asunder,
Thou hast made the Nations hear thee—
Thou hast bade the Tyrants fear thee—
And our hearts to-day proclaim thee,
As they oft have done before,
Fit to lead the glorious legions
Of the glorious days of yore!
Yet still, we pray thee, veil awhile
Thy splendor from our dazzled eyes
And hide the glory of thy smile,
Lest our souls wake to new surprise!
Bear with us while our feet to-day
Retrace a dim and shadowy way,
In search of what, it well may be,
Shall help to make us worthier thee!

And now, O, spirit of the Past, draw near,
And let us feel thy blessed presence here!
With reverent hearts and voices hushed and low,
We wait to hear thy garments' rustling flow!
From all the conflicts of our busy life,
From all its bitter and enduring strife,
Its eager yearnings and its wild turmoil,
Its cares, its joys, its sorrows and its toil,
Its aspirations, that too often seem
Like the remembered phantoms of a 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 whose 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 hast 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!
It may not be! Our eyes are dim,
Perhaps with age, perhaps with tears;
We hear no more the choral hymn
The angels sing among the spheres.
Weary and worn and tempest-tossed,
Much have we gained—and something lost—
Since in the sunbeams golden glow,
The rippling river's silvery flow,
The song of bird or murmuring bee,
The fragrant flower, the stately tree,
The royal pomp of sunset skies,
And all earth's varied harmonies,
We saw and heard what nevermore
Can Earth or Heaven to us restore,
And felt a child's unquestioning faith
In childhood's mystic lore!

Yet could our voices reach the slumbering dead
Who rest so calmly in yon grass-grown bed,
This truth would seem 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 century had died at last,
Another age should make their graves a shrine,
And humble chaplets for their memory twine.
They simply strove, as other men 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, tearful homage we pay!
And the laurel-crowned Present comes humbly at last,
And bends by our side at the shrine of the Past.
With the hands that such burdens unshrinking have borne,
From the brow weary cares have so furrowed and worn,
She takes off the chaplet, and lays it with tears,
That she cares not to hide, at the feet of the Years.
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 face, unshadowed and clear.
Two garlands she bears in the arms 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!