Classic Poem

SEPULTURE — BOSTON, AUGUST 13, 1890

DEAD? this peerless man of men —
Patriot, Poet, Citizen! —
Dead? and ye weep where he lies
Mute, with folded eyes!

Courage! All his tears are done;
Mark him, dauntless, face the sun!
He hath led you. — Still, as true,
He is leading you.

Folded eyes and folded hands
Typify divine commands
He is hearkening to, intent
Beyond wonderment.

'Tis promotion that has come
Thus upon him. Stricken dumb
Be your moanings dolorous!
God knows what He does.

Rather, as your chief, aspire! —
Rise and seize his toppling lyre,
And sing Freedom, Home and Love,
And the rights thereof!

Ere in selfish grief ye sink,
Come! catch rapturous breath and think —
Think what sweep of wing hath he,
Loosed in endless liberty.