He stands alone like John the Baptist
Praying in the wilderness; Now they scorn him at the altar, Smite upon his tearful cheek, Doubting if a heaven sent prophet Could so humble be and meek.
Wag their tongues in bitter mocking, Murmur like the angry seas; "And those wiser than our fathers?
Words they would not teach like these. But he turns him from their mocking, And forgives their ribaldry;
For he thinks of HIM who sorrowed Lowly in Gethsemane.
Unsubdued, all day he toileth,
Bowed by none of human fears, But at night, alone, in secret,
From his eyes drop bloody tears : Thus he lives and thus he labors, Struggling with life's ocean wave; And for him there is no slumber, Till he reach the silent grave.
Like the old and stricken year, he Goeth down the vale of Time; And the winds of life's sad winter Ring his sad funereal chime; Lowly on the bier he lieth,
Borne along the crowded street, And men gaze on him with wonder That his slumber is so sweet.
Then they think how calm and meekly Sorrow's heavy load he bore;
Then they do no more revile him, For his great heart beats no more; And from pity, Love is kindled, Love unknown, unfelt till now- For they cannot mingle hatred
With the death-dew on his brow.
And the words he taught while living Seem more holy and sublime; Up they rise like dreams commissioned From some higher, holier clime; Or like strains of earnest music Heard a little while ago, Growing softer in the distance, Sweeter as the moments grow.
And the school boy in his ramble Turns from that lone grave aside, Fearing to disturb the Master
Whom in life the world denied ; O'er his head they build vast temples, Telling to the passer by
Where the ashes of the prophet
In their silent slumber lie.
Each Orpheus must to the depths descend,
For only thus the poet can be wise,
Must make the sad Persephone his friend,
And buried love to second life arise;
Again his love must lose through too much love, Must lose his life by living life too true;
For what he sought below is passed above, Already done is all that he would do; Must tune all being with his single lyre, Must melt all rocks free from their primal pain, Must search all nature with his own soul's fire, Must bind anew all forms in heavenly chain. If he already sees what he must do,
Well may he shade his eyes from the far-shining view.
A WELCOME FOR ELIHU BURRITT
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can ;
And he looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man,
Longfellow's Village Blacksmith.
Up, toiling fellow-countrymen !
The good ship nears the strand,
That bears a true and honest man
From the far western land;
Up, up and give him welcome!
No hats off and no cheers,
But meet him as a friend meets friend,
After a lapse of years,
With nervous graspings of the hand,
And glances full of love,
And joyous words, and smiles as bright As sun-bursts from above.
What though your cheeks be sun-embrowned, Your hands grown hard with toil; Think ye he'll not return the grasp,
And render smile for smile?
What though your speech be rude, and ye Of knowledge have small store; While he hath mastered many tongues,
And deeply drank of lore;
Will he disdainful turn away,
And scorn his fellow-men ? Oh, no! 'tis such as you he loves, Up, up, and greet him, then!
He cometh not as monarchs come, In pomp, and pride, and state; He cometh not as heroes come, With deeds of blood elate; He wears no kingly crown, and yet In truth, a king is he-
A mighty one-in realms of mind
He hath a sovereignty;
He bears no sword, no laurel wreath, Yet who like he hath fought,
And difficulties overcome,
And deeds of greatness wrought?
He sends his messengers before, The blessed words of peace, To bid all strifes and jealousies, And vain contentions cease;
His "olive leaves" are scattered round,
And borne on every gale;
Oh, may the lessons there impressed
O'er human hearts prevail ! Then up, my fellow-countrymen, And greet this working man, This pioneer in life's great march, And leader of the van.
The morning was a summer one-the boughs Of the green trees were lifted in the wind, The soft south wind, that wandered over earth, Touching the long grass and the quiet streams With a light wing, as fearing to disturb The sanctity of worship.
The multitude had gathered, in the deep And bowing sense of man's unworthiness. Slowly and quietly they came-the young, And the gray man—the modest glancing girl And the staid gravity of riper years,
Like noiseless shadows, stealing to their seats As the last footstep passed away, the breeze, With its light tones, was audible alone, Stirring the willows which o'erhung the dead, And whispering to the grave stones.
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