Classic Poem

Red globes of autumn strew the sod,
The bannered woods wear crimson shields,
The aster and the golden-rod
Deck all the fields.

No clarion blast, at morning blown,
Should greet the way-worn veteran here,
Nor roll of drum nor trumpet-tone
Assail his ear.

No jewelled ensigns now should smite,
With jarring flash, down emerald steeps,
Where sweetly in the sunset light
The valley sleeps.

No bolder ray should bathe this bower
Than when, above the glimmering stream,
The crescent moon, in twilight's hour,
First sheds her beam.

No ruder note should break the thrall,
That love and peace and honor weave,
Than some lone wild-bird's gentle call,
At summer eve.

But here should float the voice of song,—
Like evening winds in autumn leaves,
Sweet with the balm they waft along
From golden sheaves.

The sacred past should feel its spell,
And here should murmur, soft and low,
The voices that he loved so well,—
Long, long ago.

The vanished scenes should give to this
The cherished forms of other days,
And rosy lips that felt his kiss
Breathe out his praise.

The comrades of his young renown
Should proudly throng around him now,
When falls the spotless laurel crown
Upon his brow.

Not in their clamorous shouts who make
The noonday pomp of glory's lord
Does the true soul of manhood take
Its high reward.

But when, from all the glimmering years,
Beneath the moonlight of the past
The strong and tender spirit hears
‘Well done,’ at last;

When love looks forth from heavenly eyes,
And heavenly voices make acclaim,
And all his deeds of kindness rise
To bless his name;

When all that has been sweetly blends
With all that is, and both revere
The life so lovely in its ends,
So pure, so dear;

Then leaps, indeed, the golden flame
Of blissful pride to rapture's brim,—
The fire that sacramental fame
Has lit for him!

For him who, lord of joy and woe,
Through half a century's snow-white years
Has gently ruled, in humor's glow,
The fount of tears.

True, simple, earnest, patient, kind,
Through griefs that many a weaker will
Had stricken dead, his noble mind
Was constant still.

Sweet, tender, playful, thoughtful, droll,
His gentle genius still has made
Mirth's perfect sunshine in the soul,
And pity's shade.

With amaranths of eternal spring
Be all his life's calm evening drest,
While summer winds around him sing
The songs of rest!

And thou, O Memory, strange and dread,
That stand'st on heaven's ascending slope,
Lay softly on his reverend head
The wreath of hope!

So softly, when the port he wins,
To which life's happiest breezes blow,
That where earth ends and heaven begins
He shall not know.