Francis Bret Harte (Фрэнсис Брет Гарт)
On William Francis Bartlett
DEAD AT PITTSFIELD, MASS., 1876 O poor Romancer--thou whose printed page, Filled with rude speech and ruder forms of strife, Was given to heroes in whose vulgar rage No trace appears of gentler ways and life!-- Thou who wast wont of commoner clay to build Some rough Achilles or some Ajax tall; Thou whose free brush too oft was wont to gild Some single virtue till it dazzled all;-- What right hast thou beside this laureled bier Whereon all manhood lies--whereon the wreath Of Harvard rests, the civic crown, and here The starry flag, and sword and jeweled sheath? Seest thou these hatchments? Knowest thou this blood Nourished the heroes of Colonial days-- Sent to the dim and savage-haunted wood Those sad-eyed Puritans with hymns of praise? Look round thee! Everywhere is classic ground. There Greylock rears. Beside yon silver ”Bowl” Great Hawthorne dwelt, and in its mirror found Those quaint, strange shapes that filled his poet’s soul. Still silent, Stranger? Thou who now and then Touched the too credulous ear with pathos, canst not speak? Hast lost thy ready skill of tongue and pen? What, Jester! Tears upon that painted cheek? Pardon, good friends! I am not here to mar His laureled wreaths with this poor tinseled crown-- This man who taught me how ’twas better far To be the poem than to write it down. I bring no lesson. Well have others preached This sword that dealt full many a gallant blow; I come once more to touch the hand that reached Its knightly gauntlet to the vanquished foe. O pale Aristocrat, that liest there, So cold, so silent! Couldst thou not in grace Have borne with us still longer, and so spare The scorn we see in that proud, placid face? ”Hail and farewell!” So the proud Roman cried O’er his dead hero. ”Hail,” but not ”farewell.” With each high thought thou walkest side by side; We feel thee, touch thee, know who wrought the spell!
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