THE GRAY CHIEF. FOR THE MEETING OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY, 1859. 'TIS sweet to fight our battles o'er, And crown with honest praise The gray old chief, who strikes no more The blow of better days. Before the true and trusted sage With willing hearts we bend, When years have touched with hallowing age For all his manhood's labor past, His age is honored to the last, Though strength and will have died. But when, untamed by toil and strife, Full in our front he stands, The torch of light, the shield of life, Still lifted in his hands, No temple, though its walls resound Can hold the honors that surround 10* THE LAST LOOK. W. W. SWAIN. BEHOLD not him we knew! This was the prison which his soul looked through, Tender, and brave, and true. His voice no more is heard; And his dead name that dear familiar word Lies on our lips unstirred. He spake with poet's tongue; Living, for him the minstrel's lyre was strung: Grief tried his love, and pain; And the long bondage of his martyr-chain It felt life's surges break, As, girt with stormy seas, his island lake, How can we sorrow more? Grieve not for him whose heart had gone before To that untrodden shore! Lo, through its leafy screen, A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green, Untrodden, half unseen! Here let his body rest, Where the calm shadows that his soul loved best May slide above his breast. Smooth his uncurtained bed; And if some natural tears are softly shed, It is not for the dead. Fold the green turf aright For the long hours before the morning's light, And say the last Good Night! |