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.