 | Lyrical Poems |  |
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PRO MORTUIS
Almost all modern English poets havesuffered more or less injury from neglect of that decent reverence for the dead which
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What should a man desire to leave?
A flawless work; a noble life:
Some music harmonized from strife,
Some finish'd thing, ere the slack hands at eve
Drop, should be his to leave.
A flawless work; a noble life:
Some music harmonized from strife,
Some finish'd thing, ere the slack hands at eve
Drop, should be his to leave.
One gem of song, defying age;
A hard-won fight; a well-work'd farm;
A law, no guile can twist to harm;
Some tale as our lost Thackeray's, bright, or sage
As the just Hallam's page.
A hard-won fight; a well-work'd farm;
A law, no guile can twist to harm;
Some tale as our lost Thackeray's, bright, or sage
As the just Hallam's page.
Or, in life's homeliest, meanest spot,
With temperate step from year to year
To move within his little sphere,
Leaving a pure name to be known, or not,—
This is a true man's lot.
With temperate step from year to year
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Leaving a pure name to be known, or not,—
This is a true man's lot.
He dies: he leaves the deed or name,
A gift for ever to his land,
In trust to Friendship's prudent hand,
Bound 'gainst all adverse shocks to guard his fame,
Or to the world proclaim.
A gift for ever to his land,
In trust to Friendship's prudent hand,
Bound 'gainst all adverse shocks to guard his fame,
Or to the world proclaim.
But the imperfect thing, or thought,—
The crudities and yeast of youth,
The dubious doubt, the twilight truth,
The work that for the passing day was wrought,
The schemes that came to nought,
The crudities and yeast of youth,
The dubious doubt, the twilight truth,
The work that for the passing day was wrought,
The schemes that came to nought,
The sketch half-way 'twixt verse and prose
That mocks the finish'd picture true,
The quarry whence the statue grew,
The scaffolding 'neath which the palace rose,
The vague abortive throes
That mocks the finish'd picture true,
The quarry whence the statue grew,
The scaffolding 'neath which the palace rose,
The vague abortive throes
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And fever-fits of joy or gloom:—
In kind oblivion let them be!
Nor has the dead worse foe than he
Who rakes these sweepings of the artist's room,
And piles them on his tomb.
In kind oblivion let them be!
Nor has the dead worse foe than he
Who rakes these sweepings of the artist's room,
And piles them on his tomb.
Ah, 'tis but little that the best,
Frail children of a fleeting hour,
Can leave of perfect fruit or flower!
Ah, let all else be graciously supprest
When man lies down to rest!
Frail children of a fleeting hour,
Can leave of perfect fruit or flower!
Ah, let all else be graciously supprest
When man lies down to rest!
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