Part 51 (1/2)

MOURNING.

_(”Charle! o mon fils!”)_

[March, 1871.]

Charles, Charles, my son! hast thou, then, quitted me?

Must all fade, naught endure?

Hast vanished in that radiance, clear for thee, But still for us obscure?

My sunset lingers, boy, thy morn declines!

Sweet mutual love we've known; For man, alas! plans, dreams, and smiling twines With others' souls his own.

He cries, ”This has no end!” pursues his way: He soon is downward bound: He lives, he suffers; in his grasp one day Mere dust and ashes found.

I've wandered twenty years, in distant lands, With sore heart forced to stay: Why fell the blow Fate only understands!

G.o.d took my home away.

To-day one daughter and one son remain Of all my goodly show: Wellnigh in solitude my dark hours wane; G.o.d takes my children now.

Linger, ye two still left me! though decays Our nest, our hearts remain; In gloom of death your mother silent prays, I in this life of pain.

Martyr of Sion! holding Thee in sight, I'll drain this cup of gall, And scale with step resolved that dangerous height, Which rather seems a fall.

Truth is sufficient guide; no more man needs Than end so n.o.bly shown.

Mourning, but brave, I march; where duty leads, I seek the vast unknown.

MARWOOD TUCKER.

THE LESSON OF THE PATRIOT DEAD.

_(”O caresse sublime.”)_

[April, 1871.]

Upon the grave's cold mouth there ever have caresses clung For those who died ideally good and grand and pure and young; Under the scorn of all who clamor: ”There is nothing just!”

And bow to dread inquisitor and wors.h.i.+p lords of dust; Let sophists give the lie, hearts droop, and courtiers play the worm, Our martyrs of Democracy the Truth sublime affirm!

And when all seems inert upon this seething, troublous round, And when the rashest knows not best to flee ar stand his ground, When not a single war-cry from the sombre ma.s.s will rush, When o'er the universe is spread by Doubting utter hush, Then he who searches well within the walls that close immure Our teachers, leaders, heroes slain because they lived too pure, May glue his ear upon the ground where few else came to grieve, And ask the austere shadows: ”Ho! and must one still believe?

Read yet the orders: 'Forward, march!' and 'charge!'” Then from the lime, Which burnt the bones but left the soul (Oh! tyrants' useless crime!) Will rise reply: ”Yes!” ”yes!” and ”yes!” the thousand, thousandth time!

H.L.W.