At William Maclennan's Grave

Here where the cypress tall

Shadows the stucco wall,

    Bronze and deep,

Where the chrysanthemums blow,

And the roses--blood and snow--

    He lies asleep.

Florence dreameth afar;

Memories of foray and war,

    Murmur still;

The Certosa crowns with a cold

Cloud of snow and gold

    The olive hill.

What has he now for the streams

Born sweet and deep with dreams

    From the cedar meres?

Only the Arno's flow,

Turbid, and weary, and slow

    With wrath and tears.

What has he now for the song

Of the boatmen, joyous and long,

    Where the rapids shine?

Only the sound of toil,

Where the peasants press the soil

    For the oil and wine.

Spirit-fellow in sooth

With bold La Salle and Duluth,

    And La Vérandrye,--

Nothing he has but rest,

Deep in his cypress nest

    With memory.

Hearts of steel and of fire,

Why do ye love and aspire,

    When follows

Death--all your passionate deeds,

Garnered with rust and with weeds

    In the hollows?

God that hardened the steel,

Bid the flame leap and reel,

    Gave us unrest;

We act in the dusk afar,

In a star beyond your star,

    His behest.

"We leave you dreams and names

Still we are iron and flames,

    Biting and bright;

Into some virgin world,

Champions, we are hurled,

    Of venture and fight."

Here where the shadows fall,

From the cypress by the wall,

    Where the roses are--

Here is a dream and a name,

There, like a rose of flame,

    Rises--a star.