While loved ones around her in sorrow wept
The tears that welled up from the breast,
She scaled the sweet summer highway of light
That led to the kingdom of rest.
She silently entered the gateway of pearl
That swept for her coming ajar
And caught on her forehead the crown of her faith
Each virtue renewed in a star.
The breath of the soft-blooming gardens of God,
The music of angel bands,
Came out with the breeze to lay on her brow
The kiss of the morning lands.
And the smile of the rainbow enriching the sky
Flashed welcome into her face,
While the swell of the harps she had heard in her dreams
Sang out in the heavenly place.
No flower of Eden was fairer than she,
As she stood in her beauty so bright;
And the glow of this earth all melts into gloom
For one who is lonely tonight.
Oh, fair, indeed, was the life that closed
But fairer the life begun,
For the old one died with the light of the stars,
The new one began with the sun!
Thus sweetly forever I think of her now,
An angel of God and of truth,
Not dead, but immortal, my sister a queen,
And crowned in the bloom of her youth.
[Lines on the death of Henry Boylston, Jr., who died in young manhood's prime, at his home in Atlanta, in the fall of 1894.]
Through sorrow's bleak and bitter night
The autumn stars are streaming-
List to the language of their light:
He is not dead, but dreaming.
Dreaming in young manhood's morn,
Dreaming at the gates of dawn;
See the mystic curtains drawn,
Roses there, but not a thorn!
Dreaming, only dreaming.
How beautiful the lines of sleep,
The smile of youth still beaming!
Cheer up, sad hearts and cease to weep,
He is not dead, but dreaming;
Dreaming in a cloudless May,
Dreaming in a deathless day,
Lit by Loves resplendent ray;
Hear ye not those mute lips say?
Dreaming, only dreaming.
Death cannot claim the pure in heart;
Though dark its outward seeming,
It whispers of a sweeter part
Beyond this vale of dreaming;
Dreaming! oh, how sweet to dream,
Dreaming in the daylight's gleam,
In the soft moon's mellow beam,
On the hill or by the stream-
Dreaming, only dreaming.
Beneath the sunshine and the rain
The stars of ether gleaming;
Goodnight till morning comes again,
And peace attend thy dreaming;
Dreaming in the noontide calm,
Dreaming of life's beulah-balm
Soon to wave its victor-palm,
Soon to lift its seraph-psalm-
Dreaming, only dreaming.
November 3, 1894.
[In Rose Hill cemetery, Macon, Ga., the ashes of the great statesman and jurist, L. Q. C. Lamar, were interred in the fall of 1893 but were later removed to Oxford, Miss. These lines, written at the time of his funeral, apply with equal force to his no less distinguished kinsman, Justice Joseph R. Lamar, who at the time of his death was likewise a member of the Supreme Court the United States. He lies buried on the Sand Hills, at Augusta, Ga.]
Here lies a gentleman! In every deed
A cavalier; in manners so refined
That courtesy adorned him like the silk
Fresh from the loom; whether in public life
Or private station, so devoutly pure
That no suspicion dimmed his knightly star,
Or stained his fleur-de-lis. From gentle France,
The crimson of the Huguenot, unblanched
By tyranny, suffused his cheek and roused
His spirit to maintain the right or swell
Its martyrdom. It seemed that in his soul
The eternal granite of the hills was mix'd
To strengthen the magnolia's bloom and o'er
The fibre of the peerless oak was shed
The perfume of the violet. He loved
His fellow men and lived their pattern in
The Roman's pride of honor. In his walks
He moved so lightly that he seemed to tread
A velvet highway and to charm the world
By gentleness. He towered every inch
A man, and yet around his noble form
As if to make him nobler still, it seemed
That womanhood had thrown her modest veil
And joined her sweet humility.
He robbed the winter of its snow to wed
The deeper thought that in his soul reposed
Like stainless marble in the vestal dream
Of purity. In statesmanship he sought
No private end, but only served the state
And found his gain in her prosperity.
In law and letters he maintained the lead,
Nor was he satisfied alone to reap,
But plowed the fields and nursed them into grain.
In oratory he revived the spell
Of buried eloquence and like the storm
Unloosed upon the sea, he stirred the deep
And hidden caverns of the soul. He scorned
The vile traducer who essayed to crush
The idol of his section. He espoused the truth
And challenged falsehood till its author, lashed
Cried out for mercy and the eager crowd
Looked on in admiration to behold
That Cicero, to rescue statesman,
Had broken the eternal silence and
Demosthenes from out the tomb had stepped
To give the blush to Philip. Yet he loved
The virtuous and the good; so when the heart
Of Sumner paused he first of all proclaimed
The gospel of forgiveness; until North and South
Forgetful of the gloom began to feel
The freshness of the dawn. In him the lark
Commenced to sing and from his tender soul
The morning star leaped forth in witchery
To charm the budding twilight.
Rest on in Dixie's bosom, in the lap
Of her who nurtured thee; beneath the stars
That brought their jewels to thy birth and smiled
Upon thy sleeping! May the gentle rose,
That caught the rumor of thy life and told
The garden of thy coming, guard thee still!
In years to be thy golden heart shall beat
In other hearts made gentler; Dixie's youth
From thee shall learn the art of courtesy.
Not deathless marble, but diviner men
Shall speak thy eulogy, and tell the world
The story of thy passing; and at length
If men should spurn thee for the lust of gold
Thy spirit still in refuge to the fields
Shall wed the loveliness of nature; and,
Among her flowers, lift up its balmy soul
To swell the incense of the rose's breath
And, with the daises, march to meet the dawn!
THE RAINBOW ON THE CLOUD.
[Lines on the death of Mrs. James G. West, of Atlanta, Ga.]
Oh why should tears of grief be shed
For one who is not truly dead?
Death's quiver holds no poisoned dart
For those who chose the better part.
God's love has kissed her into sleep-
Hast thou her faith? Then cease to weep;
Look not upon the sombre shroud,
But see the rainbow on the cloud;
The bush on which the briar grows
Oft lights the glory of the rose.
Think of her still as ever near
Among the friends who loved her here;
Behold her look in every gleam
Of sunshine, flower, fruit and stream-
List to her voice in every note
That trembles in the songbird's throat.
She lives again; though lost to sight
Her smile beams in the morning light
And softly, as the shadows creep,
She folds her little ones to sleep;
In every thought of love and truth
Her spirit breathes immortal youth,
And every trembling leaf and star
Records a memory of her.
This globe is of celestial birth
And paradise begins on earth.
The souls of gentle friends beloved
Are not from mortal scenes removed.
God dwells upon the viewless air
And heaven's bright clime is everywhere.
'Tis but a step from grief to pain
To light and love and life again,
And death is but the iron key
That turns upon life's mystery.
[Read at the services held in Atlanta in commeration of the first half century of the Y. M. C. A. in June, 1914. This poem called forth a beautiful letter of acknowledgment from the pen of Sir George Williams, the Founder.]
Fifty years ago an acorn planted in old England's sod
Now a lordly oak whose branches fill the universe of God.
Fifty years ago a banner by a beardless boy unfurled,
Now a flag, in splendor waving, from the roof-tree of the world.
Hail the wondrous consummation! Hail the love-inspired plan,
Measured to the soul's uplifting; man's rich legacy to man!
Never since the meek Jehovah preached beside the mystic sea
Has the truth in such a triumph gained upon humanity.
Unto thee the honor, London; thine the cradle of its birth,
Thou hast weaved the world a halo, made a Saturn of the earth;
For the seed which thou hast planted germinates on every plain
And the globe displays the girdle of Victoria's peaceful reign.
Worthily, indeed, has England knighted her imperial son,
Worthily his brow thus knighted wears the laurel he has won,
Never since the royal favor to the first of all was shown
Has the knighting of a subject shed such favor on the crown.
Worthy of her elder knighthood, whose proud chivalry has shed
Luster on the lance of England, glory on her ancient dead.
Worthy of King Arthur's helmet; worthy of the shining shield,
Flashing to the foe the message, "Launcelot is in the field."
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