Burial-Song For Sumner.

Now the last wreath of snow             That melts, in mist exhales     White aspiration, and our deep-voiced gales     In chorus chant the measured march of spring,             Whom griefs of life and death             Are burdening!             Slow, slow -             With half-held breath -     Tread slow, O mourners, that all men may know             What hero here lies low!             O music, sweep             From some deep cave, and bear     To us that gasp in this so meagre air             Sweet ministerings     And consolations of contorted sound,             With agonies profound     Of nobly warring and enduring chords             That lie, close-bound,     Unstirred as yet 'neath thy wide, wakening wings;     So that our hearts break not in broken words.             O music, that hast power             This darkness to devour     In vivid light; that from the dusk of grief     Canst cause to grow divergent flower and leaf,             And from death's darkest roots             Bring forth the fairest fruits; -             Come thou, to quicken this hour             Of loss, and keep     Thy spell on all, that none may dare to weep!             For he whom now we mourn,             As if from giants born,     Was strong in limb and strong in brain,     And nobly with a giant scorn             Withstood the direst pain             That healing science knows,             When, by the dastard blows             Of his brute enemy     Laid low, he sought to rise again             Through help of knife and fire, -             The awful enginery             Wherewith men dare aspire     To wrest from Death his victims. Yea,     Though he who healed him shrank and throbbed             With horror of the wound,             Brave Sumner gave no sound,             Nor flinched, nor sobbed,             But as though within the man             Instant premonition ran             Of his high fate,     Imperishable, sculptured state             Enthroned in death to hold,             He stood, a statued form             Of veiled and voiceless storm,             Inwardly quivering             Like the swift-smitten string             Of unheard music, yet             As massively and firmly set     As if he had been marble or wrought gold!             Built in so brave a shape,             How could he hope escape             The blundering people's wrath?             Who, seeing him strong,     Supposed it right to cast on him their wrong,             Since he could bear it all!             Lo, now, the sombre pall         Sweeps their dull errors from the path,             And leaves it free     For him, whose hushed heart no reproaches hath,             Unto his grave to fare,             In shrouded majesty!             His triumph fills the air:     Behold, the streets are bordered with vain breath     Of those who reverent watch the train of death;             But he has done with breathing!             Wise Death, still choosing near and far,             Thou couldst not strike a higher star             From out our heaven, and yet its light             In falling glorifies the night!             Leader in life, his lips, though dumb,     Still rule us by their restfulness, their smile     Of far-off meanings; and the people come     In tributary hosts for many a mile,             Drawn by an eloquence             More solemn and intense             Than that wherewith he shook             The Senate, while his look     Of sober lightning cleft the knotty growth     Of error, that within the riven root     Uplifted, lit with peace, truth's buds might shoot,     And blow sweet breath o'er all, however loth!     Unspeaking, though his eyes forget         The light that late forsook         Their chambers, there doth rise         Mysteriously yet         A radiance thence that glows     On brows of them, the great and wise,     Poets and men of prophecies,     Who, with looks of strange repose,     Calm, exalted, here have met     Him to follow to his grave.     Well they know he's crossed their bound,     Yet, with baffled longing brave,     Seek with him the depths to sound     That gulf our lonely life around.     Oh, on these mortal faces frail         What immortality         Falls from the death-light pale!     Ev'n thus the path unto thy tomb,     Sumner, all our brave and good     Still shall pace through time to come,     For in distant Auburn wood     Seeing the glimmer of thy stone,     They a shaft shall deem it, thrown     From a dawn beyond the deep,         And so haste with thee to keep             Angelic brotherhood!             O herald, gone before,             For these throw wide the door,             Make room, make room!             Now, music, cease,     And bitter brazen trumpets hold your peace!         Now, while the dumb, white air         Draws from our still despair             A purer prayer.             Then must the sod         Fulfill its humble share,         Meek-folded o'er his breast,     Here where he lies amongst the waiting trees:     They shall break bud when warm winds from the west     And southern breezes come to touch the place         Made precious by this grace         Of memory dear to God.     We leave him where the granite Lion lies     And gazes toward the East, with woman's eyes     That read the riddle of the undying sun,     Bearing within her breast the stony germ     Of continents, but - lasting no less firm -         The memory of those marvels done,         The battles fought, the words that wrought         To free a race, and chasten one.     We leave him where the river slowly winds,             A broken chain;     The river that so late its hero finds,             Without a stain,     Whose name so long expectantly it bore;         And, echoing now a people's thought,     The Charles shall murmur by this reedy shore             His fame forevermore.