DEAD—no, not dead—the darkness of the grave
Shrouds thee indeed, invisible below, And hushed those tones of passionate pure glow, Foes of the sophist counsels which deprave, Free champions of the weak and of the slave, Sound not for one dim hour of tearful woe.
To-morrow shall our human world re-know That voice, enduring as the earth and wave.
For thine was the deep eloquence of soul, Which, like the steed owning one kingly hand, Obedient to its master's sole command, Held the mute spell-bound gazers at control, With that swift fusion of the heart and mind, Parental of those thoughts which shake mankind.
E. H. B_