Classic Poem

The light hath lost its summer tints—
The world, with woe, hath whitened, since
The shrouded April, long ago,
That laid our Lily in the snow!

The star that trembles down the West
Returns not from its quiet rest—
And if the dawn awakes the flowers,
They shine for other eyes than ours!

And yet while grace of deed and thought
Shall linger where her hands have wrought
We see the April of her eyes,
And wait her summer to arise.

We wait the dawn with spice and myrrh—
We tarry by the sepulchre—
Where still the sentry's sullen tread
Insults the victor, not the Dead.

We cross her hands in perfect rest—
We lay the Bible on her breast—
We smooth the sod, we seal the stone,
Her task is wrought, God rules His own.

Twin-born with Liberty, she died
In the great battle by her side;
Mute, save the proud appeal, that lies
In silent lips and shrouded eyes.

The white palms crossed in perfect rest—
The Book of God upon her breast—
In witness of the good she sought—
In token that her task is wrought.

'Tis a proud monument they rear,
By this proud pathos of Judea—
This Roman scoff that fronts the skies—
Watching lest Righteousness arise!

Watch, Eagle!—for a tale is told
Of slumber on thine eyes of old—
Of triumph, blind; of tears that kept
The better vigil that they wept.

Watch, Roman! lest the dawning hour
Write dust and ashes on thy power—
And retribution, swift and dread,
Rise with Righteousness from the Dead!