 | Poems by John Howard Bryant |  |
186
IN MEMORIAM.
O lay him in his place of rest,
His earnest, stormy life is o'er
Let the green sods of spring be prest
'Round the loved form we see no more.
His earnest, stormy life is o'er
Let the green sods of spring be prest
'Round the loved form we see no more.
How throbbed his warm and generous heart?
What mighty passions thrill'd his frame!
How beamed his eye with sudden start
At sound of Freedom's holy name!
What mighty passions thrill'd his frame!
How beamed his eye with sudden start
At sound of Freedom's holy name!
To her he gave his earnest life,
And toiled through seeming hopeless years,
Long years of scorn and hate and strife,
'Till now her glorious day appears.
And toiled through seeming hopeless years,
Long years of scorn and hate and strife,
'Till now her glorious day appears.
Strong words of truth that cannot die,
He spoke in stern and high debate;
With manly front and dauntless eye
Met the wild charge of rebel hate.
He spoke in stern and high debate;
With manly front and dauntless eye
Met the wild charge of rebel hate.
With mightier power than Aaron's rod
He tore the sophist's nets apart,
And poured the living truth of God
Fresh on the Nation's quivering heart.
He tore the sophist's nets apart,
And poured the living truth of God
Fresh on the Nation's quivering heart.
187
What countless crowds throughout the land,
Hung on each glowing, burning word!
He swayed them with a prophet's wand,
As woods in morning winds are stirred.
Hung on each glowing, burning word!
He swayed them with a prophet's wand,
As woods in morning winds are stirred.
As Moses from the mountain steep,
He saw the enfranchis'd land before;
He leaves the boon for us to keep,
His work was done—his toil is o'er.
He saw the enfranchis'd land before;
He leaves the boon for us to keep,
His work was done—his toil is o'er.
On fields he sowed with toil and pain,
Uncounted laborers entering in,
Reap the full sheaves of ripened grain,
With harvest song and joyous din.
Uncounted laborers entering in,
Reap the full sheaves of ripened grain,
With harvest song and joyous din.
In these free prairies of the West
We lay his manly form away:
'Tis meet that here Earth's loving breast
Receive again the conqueror's clay.
We lay his manly form away:
'Tis meet that here Earth's loving breast
Receive again the conqueror's clay.
| Poems by John Howard Bryant | |