In Memoriam E.B.E.

I mourn upon this battle-field,     But not for those who perished here.     Behold the river-bank     Whither the angry farmers came,     In sloven dress and broken rank,     Nor thought of fame.     Their deed of blood     All mankind praise;     Even the serene Reason says,     It was well done.     The wise and simple have one glance     To greet yon stern head-stone,     Which more of pride than pity gave     To mark the Briton's friendless grave.     Yet it is a stately tomb;     The grand return     Of eve and morn,     The year's fresh bloom,     The silver cloud,     Might grace the dust that is most proud.     Yet not of these I muse     In this ancestral place,     But of a kindred face     That never joy or hope shall here diffuse.     Ah, brother of the brief but blazing star!     What hast thou to do with these     Haunting this bank's historic trees?     Thou born for noblest life,     For action's field, for victor's car,     Thou living champion of the right?     To these their penalty belonged:     I grudge not these their bed of death,     But thine to thee, who never wronged     The poorest that drew breath.     All inborn power that could     Consist with homage to the good     Flamed from his martial eye;     He who seemed a soldier born,     He should have the helmet worn,     All friends to fend, all foes defy,     Fronting foes of God and man,     Frowning down the evil-doer,     Battling for the weak and poor.     His from youth the leader's look     Gave the law which others took,     And never poor beseeching glance     Shamed that sculptured countenance.     There is no record left on earth,     Save in tablets of the heart,     Of the rich inherent worth,     Of the grace that on him shone,     Of eloquent lips, of joyful wit:     He could not frame a word unfit,     An act unworthy to be done;     Honor prompted every glance,     Honor came and sat beside him,     In lowly cot or painful road,     And evermore the cruel god     Cried "Onward!" and the palm-crown showed,     Born for success he seemed,     With grace to win, with heart to hold,     With shining gifts that took all eyes,     With budding power in college-halls,     As pledged in coming days to forge     Weapons to guard the State, or scourge     Tyrants despite their guards or walls.     On his young promise Beauty smiled,     Drew his free homage unbeguiled,     And prosperous Age held out his hand,     And richly his large future planned,     And troops of friends enjoyed the tide,--     All, all was given, and only health denied.     I see him with superior smile     Hunted by Sorrow's grisly train     In lands remote, in toil and pain,     With angel patience labor on,     With the high port he wore erewhile,     When, foremost of the youthful band,     The prizes in all lists he won;     Nor bate one jot of heart or hope,     And, least of all, the loyal tie     Which holds to home 'neath every sky,     The joy and pride the pilgrim feels     In hearts which round the hearth at home     Keep pulse for pulse with those who roam.     What generous beliefs console     The brave whom Fate denies the goal!     If others reach it, is content;     To Heaven's high will his will is bent.     Firm on his heart relied,     What lot soe'er betide,     Work of his hand     He nor repents nor grieves,     Pleads for itself the fact,     As unrepenting Nature leaves     Her every act.     Fell the bolt on the branching oak;     The rainbow of his hope was broke;     No craven cry, no secret tear,--     He told no pang, he knew no fear;     Its peace sublime his aspect kept,     His purpose woke, his features slept;     And yet between the spasms of pain     His genius beamed with joy again.     O'er thy rich dust the endless smile     Of Nature in thy Spanish isle     Hints never loss or cruel break     And sacrifice for love's dear sake,     Nor mourn the unalterable Days     That Genius goes and Folly stays.     What matters how, or from what ground,     The freed soul its Creator found?     Alike thy memory embalms     That orange-grove, that isle of palms,     And these loved banks, whose oak-bough bold     Root in the blood of heroes old.