Classic Poem

'T IS well: the massive shaft should stand,
Memorial of a by-gone day,
When apostolic Eliot preached
To souls that long have passed away.
The spreading branches, 'neath whose shade
The man of God so meekly stood,
Have disappeared, as Time's sharp axe
Struck at the monarch of the wood.

But still the truths he there proclaimed,
In all their pristine glory stay
Where once he stood; and his pure fame
Linked to those truths shall ne'er decay.
Oh! better far the name he won
Than those which Rome's proud conquerors wore:
Theirs was the dross which vanishes,
And his the pure and priceless ore.

The tree has fallen which to him
Was chapel, roof, and holy shrine;
And all that tawny forest-tribe
Which listened, now has known decline.
The red man lingered not, but passed
Before the white man's kingly tread;
And Natick names her Eliot
Among her honored, speaking dead.

So may we live, that, when to us
The scenes of earth shall be no more,
Our memories, like an echo sweet,
Shall still remain upon this shore!
So live, that, when the Lord shall count
Each radiant, pure, and precious gem,
We shall be numbered with the host
That form his glorious diadem!