Classic Poem

Dear Longfellow, true sorrow fills my heart
That thou, my life-long friend, hast pass'd away,
That in this mortal life thou hast no part,
All dumb the poet's song, the lyrist's lay!
And, lingering still I conjure up each scene
When we were young, and all of life was new,
When in the shades of Brunswick woodlands green
Or college-walks, I wander'd long with you.
'Twas in those haunts that first the flaming dart
Of poesy divine sank deep into thy heart.
Then first was swept thy sweet, immortal lyre,
And the young minstrel's hand first struck the wire.
That summer day serene I call to mind,
When we our tributes to the dead Past paid,
Numbering those gone, those who remain'd behind,
While at our feet thy happy children play'd.
Poet of nature! who so lov'd to paint,
Earth's fairest scenes — the wind-swept hill, the plain,
Heroic virtue and angelic saint,
Arcadian haunts and Indian's wild domain.
The flowing river, the majestic woods,
The purpling skies: the lake's cerulean space,
The tossing seas, the pouring forest-floods —
Ah! who may seek thy absence to replace!
With reverential step we place thy dust
In Nature's fairest scene, where trees may weave
Their garlands o'er thee, and sweet songs may burst
From choiring birds at day-dawn and at eve.
Far, wide for thee, there shall be sad lament
In humble hut and in palatial dome;
Thro' Old World, and thro' New, there shall be sent
A sorrowful wail from every earthly home.