Memoriae Positum

MEMORIAE POSITUM. R. G. S. I. Beneath the trees, My life-long friends in this dear spot, Sad now for eyes that see them not I hear the autumnal breeze Wake the sear leaves to sigh for gladness gone, Whispering hoarse presage of oblivion, — Hear, restless as the seas, Time's grim feet rustling through the withered grace Of many a spreading realm and strongstemmed race, Even as my own through these.

Why make we moan For loss that doth enrich us yet With upward yearnings of regret? Bleaker than unmossed stone Our lives were but for this immortal gain Of unstilled longing and inspiring pain! As thrills of long-hushed tone Live in the viol, so our souls grow fine With keen vibrations from the touch divine Of noble natures gone.

'T were indiscreet To vex the shy and sacred grief With harsh obtrusions of relief; Yet, Verse, with noiseless feet, Go whisper: "This death hath far choicer ends Than slowly to impearl in hearts of friends; These obsequies 'tis meet Not to seclude in closets of the heart, But, church-like, with wide doorways, to impart Even to the heedless street."

II.

Brave, good, and true, I see him stand before me now, And read again on that young brow, Where every hope was new, How sweet were life! Yet, by the mouth firm-set, And look made up for Duty's utmost debt, I could divine he knew That death within the sulphurous hostile lines, In the mere wreck of nobly-pitched designs, Plucks heart's-ease, and not rue.

Happy their end Who vanish down life's evening stream Placid as swans that drift in dream Round the next river-bend! Happy long life, with honor at the close, Friends' painless tears, the softened thought of foes! And yet, like him, to spend All at a gush, keeping our first faith sure From mid-life's doubt and eld's contentment poor, — What more could Fortune send?

Right in the van, On the red rampart's slippery swell, With heart that beat a charge, he fell Foeward, as fits a man; But the high soul burns on to light men's feet Where death for noble ends makes dying sweet; His life her crescent's span Orbs full with share in their undarkening days Who ever climbed the battailous steeps of praise Since valor's praise began.

III.

His life's expense Hath won for him coeval youth With the immaculate prime of Truth; While we, who make pretence At living on, and wake and eat and sleep, And life's stale trick by repetition keep, Our fickle permanence i A poor leaf-shadow on a brook, whose play Of busy idlesse ceases with our day) Is the mere cheat of sense.

We bide our chance, Unhappy, and make terms with Fate A little more to let us wait; He leads for aye the advance, Hope's forlorn-hopes that plant the desperate good For nobler Earths and days of manlier mood; Our wall of circumstance Cleared at a bound, he flashes o'er the fight, A saintly shape of fame, to cheer the right And steel each wavering glance.

I write of one, While with dim eyes I think of three; Who weeps not others fair and brave as he? Ah, when the fight is won, Dear Land, whom triflers now make bold to scorn, (Thee! from whose forehead Earth awaits her morn,) How nobler shall the sun Flame in thy sky, how braver breathe thy air, That thou bred'st children who for thee could dare And die as thine have done!