University of Virginia Library

Blown round the stormy Capes,
And in along the Sound,
Haunted by shadows, or shapes,
Out of the night profound
The Muse of the New World came
With wings and sandals of fire,
Flashed hither like sunset flame,
Or the lightning speed of desire,
Rushing along on a wind of song
From the weary waste of the sea,
To me, who have worshipped her long—
O why hath she come to me?
Because the Angel of Fate,
Whose name is also Death,
Passing from east to west,
Its secret errand not guessed,
In impious pride elate,
Laid violent hands on the great,
And plucked from his hoary head
The crowns of the world whose breath
Is heavy with eastern blooms,
That swoon with their own perfumes,
And those that rise under western skies,
Out of the Isles of the Blest,
With promise of endless rest,
Such as fills the sacred breast
Of this great, good man who is dead.

With heads bent down, and slow,
Where to-day do ye go,
People of Concord, and why
Are those tears unshed in the eye
Of man, and woman, and child,
That follow like souls exiled?
But who and what do they follow
To that grave in Sleepy Hollow,
Fresh dug in the warm, rich ground,
Where flowers will soon abound,
Roses, violets—all
That the Mother's hands let fall,
Scattering dew on the sod
Where his feet so often have trod,
Before the clouds on his soul
Began to gather, and roll,
And the iron bell to toll?
What is that clamor of thine,
O Bell! that art sounding afar,
Like a cry flung down from a star—
Hearken— “Seventy-nine! ”
A great many years to live
Where all is so fugitive.
He came of a clerical stock
For eight long generations,
Which stood as firm as a rock
In the anger of battling nations.
His grandsire marched with his flock
On that famous April morn
When the Old World died, and the New was born—
There, over yon rustic bridge,
Posted before the western ridge
On the bank of the river, full-fledged with pines,
Where aslant on their needles the morning shines,
And where, by a night's swift march, there came,
Smoke their vanguard, their rearguard Flame—
Veterans of Wolfe, and Marlborough,
Who fought their way through the Countries Low.
At Blenheim, Ramillies, Malplaquet,
Who looked on warfare as manly play—
With banners ablaze, like summer noons,
Fifers playing the merriest tunes,
Tired foot-soldiers, mounted dragoons,
Eight hundred strong, till the stern word Halt
Arrests them on the bridge at fault,
For they dare not retreat, and dare not assault.
“Men of Concord,” the preacher cried,
Bible in hand, and son by his side,
“Stand.” They stood. “They shall not advance.”
The light of his eye was a brandished lance.
“Make ready, Present.” Then, at the word,
“It is not I who speak, but the Lord—
Fire!” The varlets were soon on the run,
Scouring the road to Lexington,
Their proud crests sunken, their banners furled—
Scared by the shot heard round the world!
That a race like this should baffle their king,
Stout fighters all, was a foregone thing.
A hundred and forty years before
They had settled the place, which then was a wild,
Begirt with wigwams, at whose door,
Bow in hand, and arrow thereon,
(Like the disk and light of the sun),
Stood the savage, and grimly smiled
At the pale-faced strangers, who were not afraid,
For they straightway builded a strong stockade,
That shut their foes out, and shut in
Their wives and daughters, famine-thin,
Shaking with agues, with fevers down,
But stubbornly bent to found the town.
And they did. For when such races meet,
Not strongest hands, nor swiftest feet,
Nor all the useless blood they shed,
Determines which shall lose or win,
For victory, when they begin,
Selects the white race—not the red.
It conquers here, nor all by blows,
But half by the subtle craft of its foes:
It tracks them as they track the bear,
Under their feet a constant snare,
And with a speed that never fails
Pursues them on their viewless trails;
Comes without warning, far off is nigh,
Gone in the twinkling of an eye—
What can the red men do but die?
Children of Nature which no more
Shelters and saves them, they transfer
To the wits they sharpen all the lore
That they contrived to wrest from her:
Motions of spring under winter snow,
What happens when certain birds fly low,
Where squirrels conceal their nests, and bees
Deposit their honey in hollow trees;
Promise of winds, when wind is none,
As this or that way rushes bend;
Presage of clouds, and moon, and sun,
And what the Northern Lights portend.
Secrets of the Solar Year
Became the birthright of our seer,
With what the fearless scholar finds
In cosmic myths, which primitive minds
Writ large, but with an earlier pen
Than chronicled the deeds of men;
Scriptures of races, old and new,
The Hebrew prophet, the rapt Hindu;
And what with Hesiod, Homer began—
Mutable gods, with passions of man;
The cunning that shaped the Doric frieze,
The grace and greatness of Pericles,
Socratic question, Platonic dream,
What hallowed the grove of Academe,
With what the Christian Fathers said,
(Greatest of dead, which are not dead),
Saints Chrysostom and Augustine,
And the Roman of imperious line—
The Marcus we call Antonine;
All to this wise man was clear,
All to this great man was dear:
Was—but is not; for to-day
He has gone upon his way,
As the Masters went before,
And will be with us no more.

He has earned the right to rest,
And we should be comforted;
For the simple life he led,
And the love that he professed
For all wisdom—are not dead.
Spirits such as his remain
In the noble things they wrought,
Whereof the whole to men belong;
His, in grave and gracious thought,
And in the high poetic strain
That is the burden of his Song.