Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/378

370 ::Seeking amid those lurid skies
 * The wife he loved so well,—
 * And feel that still therein I see

All that was in my Master's thought, And, in that constant hand wherewith he wrought,
 * The eternal type of constancy.
 * Thou marble husband! might there be
 * More of flesh and blood like thee!


 * Or if, in Music's festive hall,
 * I come to cheat me of my care,
 * Amid the swell, the dying fall,
 * His genius greets me there.
 * O man of bronze! thy solemn air—
 * Best soother of a troubled brain—
 * Floods me with memories, and again
 * As thou stand'st visibly to men,
 * Beloved musician! so once more
 * Crawford comes back that did thy form restore.


 * Good mourners, go your several ways!
 * He needs no further rite, nor mass,
 * Nor eulogy, who best could praise
 * Himself in marble and in brass;
 * Yet his best monument did raise,
 * Not in those perishable things
 * That men eternal deem,—
 * The pride of palaces and kings,—

But in such works as must avail him there,
 * With Him who, from the extreme
 * Love that was in his breast,
 * Said, "Come, all ye that heavy burdens bear,
 * And I will give you rest!"