On William Francis Bartlett

O poor Romancer thou whose printed page,     Filled with rude speech and ruder forms of strife,     Was given to heroes in whose vulgar rage     No trace appears of gentler ways and life!     Thou who wast wont of commoner clay to build     Some rough Achilles or some Ajax tall;     Thou whose free brush too oft was wont to gild     Some single virtue till it dazzled all;     What right hast thou beside this laureled bier     Whereon all manhood lies whereon the wreath     Of Harvard rests, the civic crown, and here     The starry flag, and sword and jeweled sheath?     Seest thou these hatchments? Knowest thou this blood     Nourished the heroes of Colonial days     Sent to the dim and savage-haunted wood     Those sad-eyed Puritans with hymns of praise?     Look round thee! Everywhere is classic ground.     There Greylock rears. Beside yon silver Bowl     Great Hawthorne dwelt, and in its mirror found     Those quaint, strange shapes that filled his poets soul.     Still silent, Stranger? Thou who now and then     Touched the too credulous ear with pathos, canst not speak?     Hast lost thy ready skill of tongue and pen?     What, Jester! Tears upon that painted cheek?     Pardon, good friends! I am not here to mar     His laureled wreaths with this poor tinseled crown     This man who taught me how twas better far     To be the poem than to write it down.     I bring no lesson. Well have others preached     This sword that dealt full many a gallant blow;     I come once more to touch the hand that reached     Its knightly gauntlet to the vanquished foe.     O pale Aristocrat, that liest there,     So cold, so silent! Couldst thou not in grace     Have borne with us still longer, and so spare     The scorn we see in that proud, placid face?     Hail and farewell! So the proud Roman cried     Oer his dead hero. Hail, but not farewell.     With each high thought thou walkest side by side;     We feel thee, touch thee, know who wrought the spell!