An Ode

I     not with slow, funereal sound     Come we to this sacred ground; Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum,     Bringing a cypress wreath       To lay, with bended knee,     On the cold brows of Death—       Not so, dear God, we come,     But with the trumpets’ blare And shot-torn battle-banners flung to air,         As for a victory! Hark to the measured tread of martial feet, The music and the murmurs of the street!     No bugle breathes this day     Disaster and retreat!—     Hark, how the iron lips     Of the great battle-ships Salute the City from her azure Bay! II Time was—time was, ah, unforgotten years!— We paid our hero tribute of our tears.         But now let go All sounds and signs and formulas of woe:   ’T is Life, not Death, we celebrate;   To Life, not Death, we dedicate This storied bronze, whereon is wrought The lithe immortal figure of our thought,   To show forever to men’s eyes,   Our children’s children’s children’s eyes,         How once he stood         In that heroic mood,     He and his dusky braves     So fain of glorious graves!—     One instant stood, and then Drave through that cloud of purple steel and flame, Which wrapt him, held him, gave him not again, But in its trampled ashes left to Fame         An everlasting name! III       That was indeed to live—       At one bold swoop to wrest       From darkling death the best       That death to life can give.       He fell as Roland fell       That day at Roncevaux, With foot upon the ramparts of the foe!       A pæan, not a knell,       For heroes dying so!       No need for sorrow here,       No room for sigh or tear, Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know.       See where he rides, our Knight!       Within his eyes the light Of battle, and youth’s gold about his brow; Our Paladin, our Soldier of the Cross,       Not weighing gain with loss—       World-loser, that won all       Obeying duty’s call!       Not his, at peril’s frown,       A pulse of quicker beat;       Not his to hesitate       And parley hold with Fate,       But proudly to fling down       His gauntlet at her feet. O soul of loyal valor and white truth,       Here, by this iron gate, Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore,       Stand thou for evermore       In thy undying youth!     The tender heart, the eagle eye!       Oh, unto him belong       The homages of Song;       Our praises and the praise       Of coming days       To him belong— To him, to him, the dead that shall not die!