Classic Poem

Her mind was ripening till the very last,
Alive to all the news that each day brings;
Before her earth's wild pageant passed,—
Its crowned Republics and its throneless king.

When battle's trumpet rang out shrill
Her eyes with passionate interest watched the fray,
And every stormy question of the day
Drew close attention still.

Mingled with holier lore
She loved the legends of old Greece and Rome,
And crossed in thought the dim sea's foam,
Landing on many a far-off shore.

The conversation ready and bright
So keenly I miss—the well-stored brain;
The mind's unintermittent light,
Quenchless by age or pain;

The thought wherein confusion never crept,
Not weakness even—to the last hour clear;
The thought that from the first hour kept
Pace with my own thought here;

This not the loving heart alone,
I miss, and shall till life is o'er:
The soul that made one music with my own,—
Music that sounds no more.