Epitaph

Farewell, beloved and mourn’d! We miss awhileThy tender gentleness of voice and smile,And that bless’d gift of heaven, to cheer us lent--That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent,Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, high,Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony.Yet from those very memories there is bornA soft light, pointing to celestial morn:Oh! bid it guide us where thy footsteps trode,To meet at last “the pure in heart” with God!

Too long apart, a bright but sever’d band,The mighty minstrels of the Rhine’s fair landMajestic strains, but not for us, had sung--Moulding to melody a stranger tongue.Brave hearts leap’d proudly to their words of power,As a true sword bounds forth in battle’s hour;Fair eyes rain’d homage o’er th’ impassion’d lays,In loving tears, more eloquent than praise;While we, far distant, knew not, dream’d not aughtOf the high marvels by that magic wrought.

But let the barriers of the sea give way,When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror’s sway!And let the Rhine divide high souls no moreFrom mingling on its old heroic shore,Which, e’en like ours, brave deeds through many an ageHave made the poet’s own free heritage!To us, though faintly, may a wandering toneOf the far minstrelsy at last be known;Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear,Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here.And if by one, more used on march and heathTo the shrill bugle than the muse’s breath,With a warm heart the offering hath been brought,And in a trusting loyalty of thought,So let it be received!--a soldier’s handBears to the breast of no ungenerous landA seed of foreign shores. O’er this fair clime,Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time,Hath song held empire; then, if not with fame,Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim,The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread,Where once that harp “the soul of music shed!”