Classic Poem

Lay him by the mountain torrent,
Where the lofty cedars wave,
That the winds may wail his requiem,
And the birds sing o'er his grave.
His warm heart is cold as ashes,
And his radiant eye is dim,
And the voice of praise or censure
Falls alike unfelt by him.
He is free from pain and sorrow,
And the burdens that he bore,
And the wrong and the injustice,
They can wring his heart no more.

As a pilot on life's ocean
He was not devoid of skill,
But the adverse winds of fortune
'Round his bark were roaring still.
He has tasted of the anguish
Which the gen'rous spirit feels,
Striving after pure ideals,
With starvation at his heels.
If his bark was sorely shatter'd,
Think but of the storms he past,
Point not to the batter'd bulwarks,
If he's safely moor'd at last.

Quick, impulsive, was his nature,
Yet he sorrow'd to give pain;
He had foes, for he was rather
Apt to speak the truth too plain.
When he witness'd an injustice
He could not control his tongue—
Call it weakness, half his sorrows
From this noble weakness sprung.
Yet he lost no jot of courage
Striving 'gainst the wind and tide,—
Oh, his very heart grew bigger,
Fighting on the weaker side.

Where conformity was wanted,
Somehow he could not conform,
He would choose his path, and tread it,
Even through the thunderstorm.
Are ye right because ye never
Step from off the beaten way?
Are all those that tempt the thicket
Ever hopelessly astray?
They must try the wilds untrodden,
They must tempt the stormy sea,
Who would bring us joyous tidings,
Who would make us wise and free.

Like ourselves, he had some frailties
Better he had been without,
But upon his truth and honor
Malice could not fix a doubt.
They are firm that never falter,
They are very wise indeed,
Who have ne'er pursued a phantom,
Never lean'd upon a reed.
Charity for human frailty
Never, never yet was wrong;
Straight they are that never stumble,
Clemency becomes the strong.

Oh! he bore a buoyant spirit
Poverty could not destroy,
All the leanings of his nature
Ever were to light and joy.
Happy, smiling human faces,
Charity's thrice-blessed words,
Fell upon his heart like sunshine,
Or the song of summer birds;
Then the sallies of his humor,
Genial as the summer rain—
No, we'll never, never listen
To such gust of soul again.

Tho' his heart had specks of darkness,
There were gleams of the divine;
Mem'ry wipes the failures from it,
Locks it in her sacred shrine;
Hangs it in her halls of twilight,
Yea, to make the darkness bright,
Like a lovely star to twinkle
Ever on the vault of night;
Severs it from dust and ashes,
Frees it from the dross of clay,
Death and time and love and sorrow
Washing all its stains away.