Classic Poem

The bier is ready and the mourners wait,
The funeral car stands open at the gate.
Bring down our brother; bear him gently, too;
So, friends, he always bore himself with you.
Down the sad staircase, from the darkened room,
For the first time, he comes in silent gloom.
Who ever left this hospitable door
Without his smile and warm “good-by,” before?
Now we for him the parting word must say
To the mute threshold whence we bear his clay.

The slow procession lags upon the road,—
'T is heavy hearts that make the heavy load;
And all too brightly glares the burning noon
On the dark pageant—be it ended soon!
The quail is piping and the locust sings,—
O grief, thy contrast with these joyful things!
What pain to see, amid our task of woe,
The laughing river keep its wonted flow!
His hawthorns there, his proudly waving corn,
And all so flourishing—and so forlorn!
His new-built cottage, too, so fairly planned,
Whose chimney ne'er shall smoke at his command.

Two sounds were heard, that on the spirit fell
With sternest moral: one the passing bell!
The other told the history of the hour—
Life's fleeting triumph, mortal pride and power,
Two trains there met: the iron-sinewed horse
And the black hearse—the engine and the corse!
Haste on your track, you fiery-wingèd steed!
I hate your presence and approve your speed;
Fly! with your eager freight of breathing men,
And leave these mourners to their march again!
Swift as my wish, they broke their slight delay,
And life and death pursued their separate way.

The solemn service in the church was held,
Bringing strange comfort as the anthem swelled,
And back we bore him to his long repose,
Where his great elm its evening shadow throws,—
A sacred spot! There often he hath stood,
Showed us his harvests and pronounced them good;
And we may stand, with eyes no longer dim,
To watch new harvests and remember him.

Peace to thee, Steuart!—and to us! The All-Wise
Would ne'er have found thee readier for the skies:
In his large love He kindly waits the best,
The fittest mood, to summon every guest;
So in his prime our dear companion went,
When the young soul is easy to repent;
No long purgation shall he now require
In black remorse, in penitential fire;
From what few frailties might have stained his morn
Our tears may wash him pure as he was born.