Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/243

Rh

, well may Essex sit forlorn
 * Beside her sea-blown shore:

Her well beloved, her noblest born,
 * Is hers in life no more!

No lapse of years can render less
 * Her memory’s sacred claim;

No fountain of forgetfulness
 * Can wet the lips of Fame.

A grief alike to wound and heal,
 * A thought to soothe and pain,

The sad, sweet pride that mothers feel
 * To her must still remain.

Good men and true she had not lacked,
 * And brave men yet shall be;

The perfect flower, the crowning fact,
 * Of all her years was he!

As Galahad pure, as Merlin sage,
 * What worthier knight was found

To grace in Arthur’s golden age
 * The fabled Table Round?

A voice, the battle’s trumpet-note,
 * To welcome and restore;

A hand, that all unwilling smote,
 * To heal and build once more!

A soul of fire, a tender heart
 * Too warm for hate, he knew