Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/198

POEMS OF OCCASION Would it were so! that now we might

Hear once his uttered voice again,

Or hold him present to our sight,

Nor reach with empty hands and vain!

O that, from some far place, were heard

One cadence of his speech returning,—

A whispered tone, a single word,

Sent back in answer to our yearning!

It may not be? What then the spark,

The essence which illumed the whole

And made his living form its mark

And outward likeness? What the soul

That warmed the heart and poised the head,

And spoke the thoughts we now inherit?

Bright force of fire and ether bred,—

Where art thou now, elusive Spirit?

Where, now, the sunburst of a love

Which blended still with sudden wrath

To nerve the righteous hand that strove,

And blaze in the oppressor's path?

Fair Earth, our dust is thine indeed!

Too soon he reached the voiceless portal,—

That whither leads? Where lies the mead

He gained, and knew himself immortal?

Or, tell us, on what distant star,

Where even as here are toil and wrong,

With strength renewed he lifts afar

A voice of aid, a war-cry strong?

What fruit, this stern Olympiad past,

Has that rich nature elsewhere yielded,

What conquest gained and knowledge vast,

What kindred beings loved and shielded!

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