The Knickerbocker Gallery/The Burial at Marshfield

by Robert S. Chilton

Layout 2

Yours ever
R. S. Chilton

The Burial at Marshfield.

 

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By R. S. Chilton.

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"Nothing in his lifeShakspeare.Became him like the leaving it."

 

What woe is this that hath cast o'er the land Such a shade of sorrow? "What star hath fledFrom the heavens above us? and why do men stand Aghast, looking earthward, as if Earth were dead?Go look in yon coffin; the answer is there, Written plain in that white and immovable face;And it darkens the sunlight and thickens the air, And robs the bright world of its manifold grace.

The fire is gone out in those cavernous eyes, Which flashed like a coal at the blast of his thought;And those closed lips will part nevermore, though the world For ages will ring with the lessons they taught.Ay, well may'st thou mourn, like a Rachel, to-day, Dear goddess of Freedom, and weep by his grave;On thy altar he laid the first-fruits of his life; To thee the best toil of his manhood he gave.

He looks not now as when, proudly erect, On the rock of the stern old Pilgrim race,He summoned up the ghost of the Past, And talked with the Future face to face!The words that fell from his lips were like drops Of a thunder-cloud—large, heavy, and clear;And they purged men's minds as the genial shower Purges the misty atmosphere.

From the soil of his own loved New-England he sprang When her acres were drenched with the blood of the brave;And back to her bosom returning to-day, With his honors full-blossomed, he sinks to the grave.Never greater than when (as the sun of his life, Sloping westward, grew large) humbly kissing the rod,On the arms of the Angel of Faith and of Hope He leaned for support, and went home to his God.