Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/166

152 grass of fifty Aprils hath waved green Above the spent heart, the Olympian head, The hands crost idly, the shut eyes unseen, Unseeing, the locked lips whose song hath fled; Yet mystic-lived, like some rich, tropic flower, His fame puts forth fresh blossoms hour by hour; Wide spread the laden branches dropping dew On the low, laureled brow misunderstood, That bent not, neither bowed, until subdued By the last foe who crowned while he o’erthrew. Fair was the Easter Sabbath morn when first Men heard he had not wakened to its light: The end had come, and time had done its worst, For the black cloud had fallen of endless night. Then in the town, as Greek accosted Greek, ’T was not the wonted festal words to speak, &quot; Christ is arisen,&quot; but &quot; Our chief is gone,&quot; With such wan aspect and grief-smitten head As when the awful cry of &quot; Pan is dead! &quot; Filled echoing hill and valley with its moan.