 | A sheaf of verse bound for the fair |  |
THE FUNERAL OF CRAWFORD.
December 5th, 1857.
The tears that silent fall,
The ritual and the pall,
The dirge and crowd of mourners gathered round,
Declare a vanished breath,
The cold eclipse of death—
But Worth and Genius rend its narrow bound;
The ritual and the pall,
The dirge and crowd of mourners gathered round,
Declare a vanished breath,
The cold eclipse of death—
But Worth and Genius rend its narrow bound;
Their offspring cannot die,
And fondly hover nigh
To soothe the anguish they may not control;
What an undying race,
In forms of placid grace,
To Fancy's gaze reveal the Sculptor's soul!
And fondly hover nigh
To soothe the anguish they may not control;
What an undying race,
In forms of placid grace,
To Fancy's gaze reveal the Sculptor's soul!
A harp's low, quivering note
Above us seems to float
Like the faint murmur of a lover's sigh,
And a lithe shape to glide
Seeking the ravished bride,
As eager Orpheus moves expectant by!
Above us seems to float
Like the faint murmur of a lover's sigh,
And a lithe shape to glide
Seeking the ravished bride,
As eager Orpheus moves expectant by!
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And Liberty's appeal
From lips of bronze to steal,
As Eloquence uplifts persuasion's hand;
While near, transfixed in thought,
From inward rapture caught,
Music's high priest before us seems to stand.
From lips of bronze to steal,
As Eloquence uplifts persuasion's hand;
While near, transfixed in thought,
From inward rapture caught,
Music's high priest before us seems to stand.
With firm, exalted mien,
In rectitude serene,
Our Country's Father reins his martial steed;
And thronging to the rite,
Looms on our aching sight,
A vast procession from the quarry freed;—
In rectitude serene,
Our Country's Father reins his martial steed;
And thronging to the rite,
Looms on our aching sight,
A vast procession from the quarry freed;—
Pandora's queenly breast,
And Cupid's loving zest,
The Grecian hero and the Saxon child;
And death's angelic sleep
Seems evermore to creep
O'er the clasped infants lost amid the wild.
And Cupid's loving zest,
The Grecian hero and the Saxon child;
And death's angelic sleep
Seems evermore to creep
O'er the clasped infants lost amid the wild.
Hushed be the requiem's wail,
As forms so mute and pale,
Yet warmed to life by thy creative art,
Haste, like pure spirits, here,
To consecrate thy bier,
And living still procaim thy dauntless heart.
As forms so mute and pale,
Yet warmed to life by thy creative art,
Haste, like pure spirits, here,
To consecrate thy bier,
And living still procaim thy dauntless heart.
Beauty's immortal quest
Sustained privation's test,
Until youth's vision manhood's prize became;
Then the delights of home,
And hallowed air of Rome,
Crowned thy unswerving prime with love and fame.
Sustained privation's test,
Until youth's vision manhood's prize became;
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And hallowed air of Rome,
Crowned thy unswerving prime with love and fame.
In Fortune's noon of might
Came the relentless blight,
And Life's best triumphs thou no more couldst share;
Those hands that nobly wrought,
And truth enamored sought,
The chisel loosened then—to fold in prayer!
Came the relentless blight,
And Life's best triumphs thou no more couldst share;
Those hands that nobly wrought,
And truth enamored sought,
The chisel loosened then—to fold in prayer!
The Grief whose shadows rest
Here in thy native West,
An echo wakes in Art's perennial clime;
Thy marble children wait,
In beauty desolate,
And brothers mourn thee in that haunt of Time!
Here in thy native West,
An echo wakes in Art's perennial clime;
Thy marble children wait,
In beauty desolate,
And brothers mourn thee in that haunt of Time!
The sunsets pensive flush,
The fountains moaning gush,
Campagna flowers sweeter incense breathe;
Beneath the Palatine,
In studio and shrine,
Glory and Woe their palm and cypress wreathe;
The fountains moaning gush,
Campagna flowers sweeter incense breathe;
Beneath the Palatine,
In studio and shrine,
Glory and Woe their palm and cypress wreathe;
With Art's eternal calm,
With Faith's all-healing balm,
And Love's unfading smile,—thy spirit fled;
Ah, no! by these we feel
Its presence o'er us steal,
Though kneeling tearful here beside the dead.
With Faith's all-healing balm,
And Love's unfading smile,—thy spirit fled;
Ah, no! by these we feel
Its presence o'er us steal,
Though kneeling tearful here beside the dead.
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