Classic Poem

Cold is the pæan honor sings,
And chill is glory's icy breath,
And pale the garland memory brings,
To grace the iron doors of death.

Fame's echoing thunder, long and loud,
The pomp of pride that decks the pall,
The plaudit of the vacant crowd,—
One word of love is worth them all!

With dew of grief our eyes are dim:
Ah, let the tear of sorrow start;
And honor, in ourselves and him,
The great and tender human heart!

Through many a night of want and woe
His frenzied spirit wandered wild,
Till kind disaster laid him low,
And love reclaimed its wayward child.

Through many a year his fame has grown,—
Like midnight, vast; like starlight, sweet;
Till now his genius fills a throne,
And homage makes his realm complete.

One meed of justice, long delayed,
One garland yet his sorrows crave!
Ah, take, thou melancholy shade,
The love that sanctifies the grave.

And may thy spirit, hovering nigh,
Pierce the dense cloud of darkness through,
And know, with fame that cannot die,
Thou hast the world's compassion, too!