In all their best of words and deeds and ways and will. I bless the dead! Their good, half choked by this world's weeds, Is blooming now in heavenly meads, And ripening golden fruit, of all those early seeds. I trust the dead! They understand me frankly now, There are no clouds on heart or brow, But spirit, reading spirit, answereth glow for glow. I praise the dead! All their tears are wiped away, Their darkness turned to perfect day,How blessed are the dead, how beautiful be they! O, godlike dead, Ye that do rest, like Noah's dove, Fearless I leave you to the love Of him who gave you peace to bear with you above. And ye, the dead Godless on earth, and gone astray, Alas, your hour is past away, The Judge is just; for you it now were sin to pray. Still, all ye dead, First may be last and last be first, Charity counteth no man curst, But hopeth still in Him whose love would save the worst. Therefore, ye dead, I love you, be ye good or ill, For God, our God, doth love me still, And you He loved on earth with love that naught could chìil. And some, just dead, To me on earth most deeply dear, Who loved and nursed and blest me here, I love you with a love that casteth out all fear. Come near me, Dead! In spirit come to me, and kiss, No! I must wait awhile for this A few, few years or days and I too feed on bliss! TO AMERICA: I. COLUMBIA, child of Britain, — noblest child, Yes, we are one; the glorious days of yore, And thou hast rights in Milton, ev'n as we, Thou too canst claim "sweet Shakspeare's wood-notes wild,"- II. I blame thee not, as other some have blam'd, That diadems thy head! go on, go on, Thou new Themistocles for enterprise, Go on and prosper, Acolyte of fate! And, precious child, dear Ephraim, turn those eyes, For thee thy Mother's yearning heart doth wait. III. Let aged Britain claim the classic Past, Whereof the Present sows its giant seeds: O'er poor old England; yet a few dark years The mother in the child; to all the West IV. Thou noble scion of an ancient root, Born of the forest-king! spread forth, spread forth, It must ere long be thine, through good or ill, Shelter her in the tempest, warring wild, Stand thou with us when all the nations rage So furiously together! we are one: And, through all time, the calm historic page Shall tell of Britain blest in thee her son. |